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THE 

Condensed Library 



Being a Condensation of the Choicest and Most Popular 
Works of Fiction by the World's Best Authors 



Also, History, Biography, and Scientific Knowledge 
In Condensed Form for Busy People 



BY A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR 

ILLUSTRATED 

f 



rDEC 1* 1893 ) 

DAYTON, OHIO ^T ^"~X" | 

The Historical Publishing Company \j I H f ^ 

1894 



fi 7 



Copyright, 1893, 
By O. O. Ozias. 



A 



INTRODUCTION. 



It is not the purpose of this book to displace any of 
the high-class standard works found condensed herein; 
but that the class of busy humanity who imagine they 
have not the time to read, may have the helpfulness to be 
derived from even a casual acquaintance with some of 
the world's best authors, this volume is prepared. 

Its mission is one of education and entertainment com- 
bined: of education, because it not only introduces to the 
busy person those authors and characters in literature 
with whom it is so desirable to have an acquaintance, 
but is suggestive of further reading along the same lines, 
its influence extending more and more broadly, as do the 
ripples on the quiet water when a pebble is dropped 
therein; of entertainment, because the writer has woven 
into the condensation such a beautiful thread of the story 
or book, that one is ready to believe it an entirely new one, 
instead of a condensation of several hundred pages into 
so small a space. 

That it may cause two blades of grass to grow where 
but one grew before, that it may stimulate a desire for a 
higher order of literature in those who read it, and that it 
may in the fullest sense realize its mission of education 
and entertainment, is the devout wish of a 

A Busy Man. 



m 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Name of Book. Name of Author. Page. 
Sketch op Shakespeare 9 

The Merchant op Venice William Shakespeare 13 

As You Like It William Shakespeare 31 

Romeo and Juliet William Shakespeare 53 

Hamlet, Prince op Denmark...... William Shakespeare 75 

Macbeth William Shakespeare 101 

Sketch op Dickens 129 

Nicholas Nickleby Charles Dickens 133 

David Copperfield Charles Dickens 157 

Dombey and Son Charles Dickens 181 

The Pickwick Papers Charles Dickens 205 

Bleak House Charles Dickens 231 

Sketch op Cooper 257 

The Spy James Fenimore Cooper.. 261 

The Last op the Mohicans ...James Fenimore Cooper.. 283 

Sketch op Hawthorne 309 

The Scarlet Letter -Nathaniel Hawthorne 313 

The House op the Seven Gables Nathaniel Hawthorne 341 

Sketch op Irving 367 

Rip Van Winkle Washington Irving, 373 

The Legend op Sleepy Hollow Washington Irving 395 




SHAKESPEARE. 



WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
Born April 23. 1564— Died April 23, 1616. 



Shakespeare was born at Stratford-upon-Avon, in War- 
wickshire, of a family that was above the common rank. 
His father was a wool dealer, and had been an officer of 
the corporation of Stratford, and was also a justice of the 
peace, and at one time was possessed of considerable 
property. Shakespeare's mother was the daughter and 
heiress of Robert Arden, of Wellington, in the county 
of Warwick. Shakespeare was the eldest son in a family 
of ten children, and probably received his early education 
in a free school, and was then placed in the office of some 
county attorney. The extent of his education will per- 
haps always remain a matter of controversy. Though 
it is not thought that he received a thorough literary 
training, he knew enough of Latin and French to intro- 
duce both into his plays without blunder or impropriety. 

When but eighteen years old he married Anne Hatha- 
way, who was eight years his senior. His conduct was 
not very exemplary, and being caught in the act of robbing 
the deer park of Sir Thomas Lucy of Charlecorte, near 
Stratford, he was obliged to leave his home and family 
and find shelter in Jxmdon. He accepted some inferior 
position in a play-house, and it was here that he seems to 
have discovered those talents which will forever make 
him 

" The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage." 

9 



10 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 

It is said that he was not eminent as an actor, but 
that he appeared to best advantage as the ghost in Hamlet. 
His plays became very popular, and he enjoyed the 
gracious favor of his sovereign, Queen Elizabeth, to 
whom he dedicated some of his poems; and of King 
James, who wrote a very gracious letter to him with his 
own hand, probably in return for the compliment he had 
paid -to his Majesty in the tragedy of Macbeth. 

It is not known how long he continued an actor, but 
he used his pen in writing plays till 1614. He acquired 
considerable property before he retired to his house in 
Stratford, where he spent the latter part of his life in ease, 
retirement, and the company of his friends. He died on 
the anniversary of his birth, aged fifty-two years, and was 
buried on the north side of the chancel of the great 
church at Stratford, where a monument is placed in the 
wall, on which he is represented under an arch, in a 
sitting posture, a cushion spread before him, with a pen 
in his right hand and his left resting on a scroll of paper. 

He left a family of two daughters and one son. The 
latter died in his twelfth year, and the daughters, who 
married gentlemen of the upper English class, died with- 
out leaving children, thus making the name of Shakes- 
peare, in the line of his descendants, extinct. 




"Shall I not have barely my principal? 



THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 



Principal Characters. 
Duke of Venice. 
Prince of Morocco, 



} 



. Suitors to Portia. 
Prince of Arragon, 

Antonio, the Merchant of Venice. 

Bassanio, Antonio's Friend. 

Solanio, 

Salarino, J> Friends to Antonio and Bassanio. 

Gratiano, 

Lorenzo, the Lover of Jessica. 

Shylock, a Jew. 

Tubal, a Jew, Friend of Shylock. 

Launcelot Gobbo, a Clown, Servant to Shylock. 

Salerio, a Messenger from, Venice. 

Leonardo, Servant to Bassanio. 

Balthasar, 



>> J 



, Servants to Portia. 
Stepnano, 

Portia, a rich Heiress. 

Nerissa, Waiting-maid to Portia. 

Jessica, Shylock's Daughter. 

Scene, partly in Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, 
on the Continent. 



12 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

By William Shakespeare. 



Shylock the Jew sat in his house in lovely Venice. 
All around him were the beauties of the city by the sea; 
but these he cared not for, because his soul, narrowed 
down to nothing save the love of gold, saw no beauty nor 
merit in anything but that which was found in the coffers 
which contained the riches to the attaining of which all 
the years of his life had been given. Jessica, his pretty, 
motherless daughter, felt the need of love, but scarcely 
looked for it from the father whose passion was gold, and 
gold alone. In bonds of strictest securities he was accus- 
tomed to put out his money. Rates of highest usury he 
always demanded. On the Rialto, where the merchants 
met and transacted business, Shylock had frequently met 
Antonio, a rich merchant, whose name was public every- 
where for honorable dealing and an upright life, and 
whose methods of business were very widely different 
from his own. 

In scorn of Shylock's birth, but more in scorn of his 
character, Antonio could not fail to let the proud Jew see 
the contempt in which he held him. Quick to discern 
this, day after day the sting was stored away in Shylock's 
memory, and he waited in silence for the time when he 
could return, in malice and with an unscrupulous usurer's 
rate, the grudge he bore against him. That time came, 
unlooked for and unheralded, to Antonio. His wealth, his 

13 



14 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

all, was invested in ships and merchandise that had gone 
to many and distant parts of the world. In their being 
widely scattered he felt security, as disaster could scarcely 
come to all at once. Ships had gone outward and others 
were expected home, when his friend, Bassanio, came and 
sought his name upon his bond. Three thousand ducats 
had Bassanio asked for from Shylock for three months, 
and the -loan was granted, with Antonio's name responsi- 
ble for its payment. A strange condition was annexed 
by Shylock. Now was his hour for revenge. 

Shylock. This kindness will I show: 
Go with me to a notary, seal me there 
Your single bond; and, in a merry sport, 
If you repay me not on such a day, 
In such a place, such sum or sums as are 
Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit 
Be nominated for an equal pound 
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken 
In what part of your body pleaseth me. 

Antonio. Content, in faith; I '11 seal to such a bond, 
And say there is much kindness in the Jew. 

Bassanio. You shall not seal to such a bond for me: 
I '11 rather dwell in my necessity. 

Antonio. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it: 
Within these two months — that's a month before 
This bond expires — I do expect return 
Of thrice three times the value of this bond. 



Come on: in this there can be no dismay; 
My ships come home a month before the day. 

Beyond the city, amid the groves whose fragrance 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 15 

scents the air of Italy, in a stately palace dwelt Portia, 
the beautiful heiress of a father who, in bequeathing to 
her his great wealth, made strange restrictions concerning 
her marriage. Something like a lottery he had devised 
in her disposal, in her settlement for life. Three chests, 
of gold, of silver, and of lead, were guarded in the palace, 
and in one of these lay the picture of Portia. He who 
came and happily chose the casket containing this picture, 
was to be her husband and the sharer of her riches. 

Gay lovers of princely or of lordly birth came and 
stood their chances in the presence of the quiet arbiters 
of their fate. From the four quarters of the earth they 
came. Before deciding on their choice of casket, each 
one was required to subscribe to a solemn promise: — 

"I am eiTJoin'd by oath t' observe three things: 
First, never to unfold to any one 
Which casket 't was I chose; next, if I fail 
Of the right casket, never in my life 
To woo a maid in way of marriage; lastly, 
If I do fail in fortune of my choice, 
Immediately to leave you and be gone." 

Suitors came and went away ungratified, misled by the 
inscriptions engraved upon the caskets. Upon the one 
of gold were the words, "Who chooseth me shall gain 
what many men desire." The silver one was different: 
"Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves"; 
while upon the leaden one were words whose uncertain 
meaning had misled all who had stood and looked upon 
it: "Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he 
hath." Invariably the silver or the golden one was 
chosen, and he who sought Portia went away in chagrin 
and disappointment. Portia herself became weary of 



16 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

these suitors for her wealth and hand, and to Nerissa, her 
maid, declared her longing to be free from them all. 
One day her servant brought her word that one ap- 
proached, unlike all his predecessors. She bade him 
bring him in, and he proved to be Bassanio, the friend 
for whom Antonio had risked so much. Passing by the 
gold and silver, he chose the leaden casket, which, upon 
opening it, he found contained the much-sought-for pic- 
ture of Portia. Their marriage quickly followed, and, as 
well, that of Gratiano, the servant of Bassanio, and Nerissa, 
Portia's maid. 

News had reached Venice that disaster had come to 
Antonio in the wrecking of a ship of his richest lading. 
News had also reached Shylock that Jessica had fled with 
Lorenzo, her lover, going aboard a ship belonging to 
Bassanio and bearing with her much of his hoarded 
treasure. In rage he paced the streets, vowing revenge. 
Two men who knew him well met him and asked the 
truth of Antonio's loss. His feelings at the flight of 
Jessica and his loss therefrom were changed upon hearing 
that Antonio's argosy coming from Tripoli was cast away. 

Tubal, the friend whom he had intrusted with the 
search for Jessica, not only brought him word that he 
had not been successful in overtaking *her and her lover, 
but confirmed the statements he had heard in regard to 
Antonio. 

Shy loch. I thank God, I thank God! — Is it true, is 
it true ? 

Tubal. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped 
the wreck. . . . There came divers of Antonio's creditors 
in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose 
but break. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 17 

Shy lock. I am very glad of it: I '11 plague him; I '11 
torture him: I am glad of it. . . . Go, Tubal, fee me an 
officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the 
heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I 
can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and 
meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our syn- 
agogue, Tubal. 

In some strange way Lorenzo and Jessica found their 
way to Portia's palace soon after her marriage to Bassanio. 
A letter had been borne to Bassanio by Salerio, a messen- 
ger from Antonio, which hastened his immediate depart- 
ure from his bride. Thus it read: "Sweet Bassanio, my 
ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel; my 
estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and 
since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all 
debts are clear'd between you and I, if I might but see 
you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure: if 
your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter." 

. Bassanio and Gratiano started immediately for Venice, 
being urged thither by Portia, bearing each of them a 
ring as pledge of constancy during their absence, and 
bearing that also from Portia which she hoped would re- 
lease Antonio from her husband's bond. 

Lorenzo, who knew Antonio well, told to Portia more 
fully all of Antonio's troubles and the dangers that 
threatened him. Said he: — 

" Madam, ... if you knew to whom you show this honour, 
How true a gentleman you send relief, 
How dear a lover of my lord your husband, 
I know you would be prouder of the work 
Than customary bounty can enforce you." 



18 THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 

Portia. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands 
The husbandry and manage of my house 
Until my lord's return; for mine own part, 
I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow 
To live in prayer and contemplation, 
Only attended by Nerissa here, 
Until her husband and my lord's return: 
There is a monastery two miles off, 
And there we will abide. I do desire you 
Not to deny this imposition, 
The which my love and some necessity 
Now lays upon you. 

My people do -already know my mind, 
And will acknowledge you and Jessica 
In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. 
So, fare you well, till we shall meet again. 

Instead of going to the monastery, — where Portia had 
not thought of going,— she called her confidential ser- 
vant, and bade him go to Padua, delivering a letter 
which he carried to Doctor Bellario, and bearing back in 
speed and safety such notes and garments as he should 
send to her. 

Portia. Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand 
That you yet know not of: we '11 see our husbands 
Before they think of us. 

Nerissa. Shall they see us? 

Portia. They shall, Nerissa, but in such a habit, 
That they shall think we 're men. 

The time had come and gone, and Antonio's bond was 
forfeit. Disasters had multiplied and come trooping upon 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 19 

him in each other's tracks until all hope had left him. 
Shylock, intent upon the payment of the bond, with 
malignant spirit urged that it be paid, according to agree- 
ment, from the merchant's body. No offer of twice or 
thrice three thousand ducats could turn him from his 
cruel purpose. The court that was to try the case con- 
vened. The duke mounted his throne. Around him 
stood his officers, ready to carry out any decision that 
might be given. Antonio and he for whom he was to 
suffer all this, — Bassanio, — attended by their friends, 
made their appearance. 

Duke. What, is Antonio here ? 

Antonio, Ready, so please your Grace. 

Duke. I 'm sorry for thee; thou art come to answer 
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch 
Uncapable of pity, void and empty 
From any dram of mercy. 

Antonio. I have heard 
Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify 
His rigorous course; but, since he stands obdurate, 
And that no lawful means can carry me 
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose 
My patience to his fury; and am arm'd 
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, 
The very tyranny and rage of his. 

Not to be daunted of any purpose he had made, Shy- 
lock entered the court at the summons of the duke. No 
reasoning could change his determination. The only 
answer which the duke could extort from him was: — 

" By our holy Sabbath have I sworn . 
To have the due and forfeit of my bond: 



20 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

So can I give no reason, nor I will not, 
More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing 
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus 
A losing suit against him." 

Antonio made answer, knowing well the man with 
whom he had to deal: — 

" You may as well go stand upon the beach, 
And bid the main flood bate his usual height; 
You may as well use question with the wolf, 
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; 
You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
To wag their high tops, and to make no noise, 
When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven; 
You. may as well do anything most hard, 
As seek to soften that — than which what's harder? — 
His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, 
Make no more offers, use no farther means; 
But, with all brief and plain conveniency, 
Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will." 

Bassanio made offer: "For thy three thousand ducats 
here is six." 

Shy lock stood unmoved: — 

"If every ducat in six thousand ducats 
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, 
I would not draw them: I would have my bond. J> 

The duke asserted his authority: — 

" Upon my power I may dismiss this court, 
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, 
Whom I have sent for to determine this, 
Come here to-day." 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 21 

Just then a messenger from Padua was announced, with 
letters from Doctor Bellario. The clerk took the letters 
and read: — 

"Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt 
of your letter I am very sick: but in the instant that your 
messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young 
doctor of Rome; his name is Balthasar. I acquainted 
him with the cause in controversy between the Jew 
and Antonio the merchant: we turn'd o'er many books 
together: he is furnished with my opinion; which, bet- 
ter'd with his own learning, the greatness whereof I 
cannot enough commend, comes with him, at my impor- 
tunity, to fill up your Grace's request in my stead. I 
beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let 
him lack a reverend estimation; for I never knew so 
young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your 
gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his 
commendation. Bellario. " 

Just then the doctor of laws entered. 

"Are you acquainted," asked the duke, "with the dif- 
ference that holds this present question in the court?" 

Balthasar. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? 

Duke. Antonio and old Shy lock, both stand forth. 

Balthasar. Is your name Shy lock? 

Shylock. Shylock is my name. 

Balthasar. Do you confess the bond? 

Antonio. I do. 

Balthasar. Then must the Jew be merciful. 

Shylock. On what compulsion must I? 

Balthasar. The quality of mercy is not strain'd; 



22 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: 

Tis mightiest in the mightiest 

. We do pray for mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. 

"My deeds upon my head!" said Shy lock. "I crave 
the law, the penalty and forfeit of my bond." 

"Is he not able to discharge the money?" questioned 
Balthasar. 

Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court; 
Yea, thrice the sum: if that will not suffice, 
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, 
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. 

"There is no power in Venice can alter a decree estab- 
lished," said the Roman doctor. 

"A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! " — shouted 
Shy lock in his joy. "0 wise young judge, how do I 
honour thee ! " 

No attempt at persuasion for mercy could dissuade the 
Jew from his horrid purpose; he vehemently insisted 
on the pound of flesh from Antonio's body. 

"Why, then," said Balthasar, " thus it is : you must pre- 
pare your bosom for his knife." 

"0 noble judge! excellent young man! .... How 
much more elder art thou than thy looks!" exclaimed 
Shy lock. 

Balthasar gave order to Antonio that he lay bare his 
bosom. 

"Ay, his breast," said Shy lock: "so says the bond: 
Nearest his heart: those are the very words." 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 23 

Balthasar. Are there balance here to weigh the flesh? 
Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, 
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

Antonio took leave of Bassanio, commending himself 
in tender remembrance to Portia, his wife. Shylock 
became impatient. 

"We trifle time," said he: "I pray thee, pursue 
sentence." [thine: 

Balthasar. A pcund of that same merchant's flesh is 
The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

There is something else. 
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood; 
The words expressly are, a pound of flesh : 
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; 
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
Unto the State of Venice. 
Shylock. Is that the law? 

I take his offer, then; — pay the bond thrice, 
And let the Christian go. 

Bassanio answered him, "Here is the money." 

But Balthasar was not to be outwitted. 

Balthasar. Soft! 
The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste: 
He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor more 
But just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st more 
Or less than a just pound, — be 't but so much 



24 THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. 

As makes it light or heavy in the substance 

Or the division of the twentieth part 

Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn 

But in the estimation of a hair, — 

Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

Shy lock. Shall I not have barely my principal? 

Balthasar. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

Outwitted, the Jew made motion to withdraw, but 
Balthasar was too wise to permit it. The laws of Venice 
were laid before him in a way different from that which 
he had expected. 

Balthasar. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, 
If it be proved against an alien 
That by direct or indirect attempts 
He seek the life of any citizen, 
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
Shall seize one-half his goods; the other half 
Comes to the privy coffer of the State; 
And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
Of the Duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 

Thou hast contrived against the very life 

Of the defendant; .... 
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. 

Shylock. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that: 
You take my house, when you do take the prop 
That doth sustain my house; you take my life, 
When you do take the means whereby I live. 

Shylock had learned the lesson intended to be taught 
him. Before the court adjourned, the disposition of his 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 25 

goods was made. One-half, by Antonio's advice, was 
given to the state to pay the fine which he had brought 
upon himself in seeking the life of a citizen, the other 
was held in use by Antonio till Shylock be dead, to be 
then transferred to Lorenzo and Jessica, and for this favor 
Shylock was to embrace the Christian faith. 

He answered meekly : — 
"I am content. 

I pray you, give me leave to go from hence: 
I am not well: send the deed after me, 
And I will sign it." 

" Get thee gone, but do it," was the duke's reply. 

The duke and all his attendants withdrew, leaving 
Balthasar with Antonio and Bassanio in the court-room. 
The three thousand ducats were tendered Balthasar by 
his two companions, including all the love and service 
they could offer him. Bassanio also urged him to take 
some personal remembrance as a tribute of esteem, not as a 
fee. Being close pressed, he chose the gloves Bassanio wore 
and the ring which Portia had given him on their mar- 
riage day. Kemembering his promise that he would 
neither sell, nor lose, nor give it away, Bassanio made 
excuse about it, urging, — 

"There 's more depends on this than on the value. 

This ring was given me by my wife; 
And, when she put it on, she made me vow 
That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it." 

Balthasar accepted his excuse, but after he had left the 
room Antonio urged that the ring be given him, and 
Gratiano ran after him and presented it in his master's 



26 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

name. In accepting it, Balthasar begged him to show 
the youth, his clerk, old Shylock's house, so that ere they 
quitted Venice — which they were in haste to do — he might 
sign the deed of property in favor of Lorenzo and Jessica. 

It was a bright moonlight night, and all nature con- 
spired to make it a perfect one. Lorenzo and Jessica, in 
the happiness of their young lives, wandered in the gar- 
dens of Belmont, Portia's beautiful home. No cares were 
theirs, for youth and innocence and inexperience drove 
care away, and their talk was pure and guileless and 
sweet as the winds that swept through the trees over- 
head. The hours passed by, as arm-in-arm they walked, 
not heeding aught around them, — so happy were they in 
their love, — when a messenger intruded, and bore the news 
that Portia and Nerissa, accompanied by an aged monk, 
would be at Belmont before the break of day. 

All things were in readiness in the house, and Lorenzo 
ordered that music should welcome its mistress to the 
beauty of her home. 

Off in the distance, as Portia drew near, she saw the 
lights and listened to the sweet sounds wafted to her on 
the breeze. 

" That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that 
little candle throws his beams ! So shines a good deed in 
a naughty world," she said. 

When she entered the garden amid its welcomings, she 
asked of Lorenzo if Bassanio and Gratiano had returned. 
Being assured that they had not, but that they were 
hourly expected, she gave orders that no word should be 
told them, on their return, that she and Nerissa had been 
absent. Just as she gave the order a trumpet announced 
their coming, and soon Bassanio, Gratiano, Antonio, and 
a train of followers entered the gates. 



THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 27 

"You're welcome home, my lord," said she. "Sir," 
to Antonio, "you are very welcome to our house: it must 
appear in other ways than words, therefore I scant this 
breathing courtesy." 

Gratiano and Nerissa had withdrawn and walked apart, 
and earnest words were heard passing between them. 

" In faith, I gave it to the judges clerk," was Gratiano 
heard to say. 

Their talk grew loud and warm, and those who heard 
it surmised it to be a quarrel. Portia inquired what it 
was; and then Nerissa's husband told the story of the ring 
she gave him, and said that after the trial he had given 
it to the judge's clerk, who had begged it as a fee, and 
whom he could not refuse. 

Portia, I gave my love a ring, and made him swear 
Never to part with it; and here he stands. 

Now, in faith, Gratiano, 

You give your wife too unkind cause of grief: 
An 't were to me, I should be mad at it. 

Gratiano replied that Bassanio, too, gave his ring away 
to the judge, who begged it of him, and who deserved it 
well, and that the clerk, who had assisted in the writing 
of the trial, begged his, and that neither man nor master 
would take aught but the two rings. 

"What ring gave you, my lord?" said Portia to Bas- 
sanio. " Not that, I hope, which you received of me." 

Bassanio, If I could add a lie unto a fault, 
I would deny it; but you see my finger 
Hath not the ring upon it, — it is gone. 

Warm words and reproaches followed, and no end was 
seen to the dispute, till Antonio — whose presence they 



28 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 

seemed to have forgotten, and who had heard it all — 
interposed : — 

"I am th' unhappy subject of these quarrels." 

"Sir, grieve not you/' said Portia; "you are welcome 
notwithstanding." 

"Portia, hear me," said Bassanio: "by my soul I swear 
I never more will break an oath with thee." 

"I dare be bound again," said Antonio, "my soul upon 
the forfeit, that your lord will never more break faith 
advisedly." 

" Then you shall be his surety," answered Portia. " Give 
him this; and bid him keep it better than the other." 

Antonio. Here, lord Bassanio ; swear to keep this ring. 

Bassanio. By Heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! 

Portia. I had it from him: pardon me, Bassanio; 
I was the doctor. 

Nerissa. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano; 
For that same boy, the doctor's clerk, was I. 

Portia. You are all amazed. 
Here is a letter, read it at your leisure; 
It comes from Padua, from Bellario: 
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor; 
Nerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here 
Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, 
And even but now return'd ; I have not yet 
Enter'd my house. — Antonio, you are welcome; 
And I have better news in store for you 
Than you expect: unseal this letter soon; 
There you shall find three of your argosies 
Are richly come to harbour suddenly: 
You shall not know by what strange accident 
I chanced on this letter. 




..3 

Is 



•8 



■ O o 

It 

Is 



r 5 * S3 



cq 



5fl 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 



Peincipal Characters. 

Duke, living in exile. 

Frederick, the Duke's usurping Brother. 

Amiens, 



us, 1 
3 > J 



. Lords attending upon the Duke in his banishment. 
Jaques, 

Le Beau, a Courtier attending upon Frederick. 

Charles, a Wrestler. 

Oliver, 

Jaques, [> Sons of Sir Roland de Bois. 

Orlando, 

Adam. 



lis, J 



, Servants to Oliver. 
Denis, 

Touchstone, a Clown. 

Sir Oliver Martext, a Vicar. 

Corin, 



} 



r Shepherds. 
Silvius, 

William, a country Fellow, in love with Audrey. 
A Person representing Hymen. 
Rosalind, Daughter to the banished Duke. 
Celia, Daughter to Frederick. 
Phebe, a Shepherdess. 
Audrey, a country Girl. 

Scene, partly near Oliver's house; partly in the Forest of Arden 
partly in the Court of Frederick. 

30 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 

By William Shakespeare. 



The landed estate of Sir Roland de Bois, with all the 
revenues thereof, was, according to the laws of France, 
inherited by his eldest son, Oliver de Bois; but provision 
was made by will for the education and settlement in 
life of two younger sons, Jaques and Orlando, the former 
of whom was sent away to college and was soon in the 
way of winning honors in the halls of learning, while 
from some strange, unnatural dislike felt toward him by 
the eldest brother, Orlando was neglected and left idly 
wandering about, uneducated and uncared for, even the 
patrimony left by his father's will being withheld from 
him. To the pride of his noble birth was added the 
pride of a noble-minded, thoughtful youth, who aspired 
to be something more than the great, ignorant fellow that 
his brother Oliver would have him become, and his com- 
plaints against the injustice shown him were poured into 
the ears of Adam, an old servant, who had reasons of his 
own why he should sympathize with him. Unable to 
submit longer to his unfair treatment, Orlando finally re- 
proached Oliver, who angrily retorted that he would give 
him part of his inheritance and see what he would do 
for himself. Oliver, in his secret soul, hated Orlando. 
To himself he owned that he could not account for this, 
as there was much in the character of the younger brother 
that was lovable, and he knew that his noble disposition 

31 



32 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

and gentle, winning manners made him beloved by all 
the servants, and had, besides, won for him the esteem of 
many friends. Though no advantages of education had 
been provided for him, he had risen above the degra- 
dation of ignorance to which Oliver had doomed him, 
and had become learned in spite of all hindrances. The 
youths of his day practiced wrestling and boxing and 
sparring, and Orlando had become expert in these and 
was quite famous among his friends for his proficiency. 

A change had taken place in the government. The 
old duke, who had for many years been at its head, was 
deposed and banished by Duke Frederick, a younger 
brother, and his exile was shared by several lords, who 
voluntarily withdrew with him, thus forfeiting their lands 
and revenues, which the usurper seized upon and added 
to his own. The deposed ruler found a temporary home 
in the great Forest of Arden, and here, being joined by 
many young men who were filled with the spirit of 
the romance and chivalry of the age in which they lived, 
they led a life similar to that of Robin Hood, whose fame 
they tried in several ways to emulate. 

Between Rosalind, the old duke's daughter, and her 
cousin Celia, the daughter of Frederick, who now held 
sway, the strongest bonds of love existed. It was said 
that if the former had been banished with her father, the 
latter would have followed her rather than submit to a 
separation. They were of nearly the same age, and from 
their, cradles every childish joy and sorrow had been 
shared between them; and now, in the new court of her 
uncle, Rosalind divided the honors and favors bestowed 
upon his heiress, Celia. 

The court of France was one of freedom and of pleas- 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 33 

ure. One day the skill and prowess of a famous wrestler 
was to be tried with anyone who would enter the ranks 
against him. Oliver de Bois had heard of Charles the 
wrestler, and had him brought before him. Oliver told 
him that he had heard that his brother Orlando had ex- 
pressed the wish to try a hand-to-hand contest with 
Charles, and he hoped that he would humor the wish. 
Believing in his heart that his brother would never be 
able to bear up under so powerful an opponent as the 
strong man before him, he secretly hoped that in the 
match Orlando would be disabled, or — what would have 
pleased him better — slain, and thus he would be rid of 
his hated presence. 

Rosalind and Celia were seated on the lawn in front of 
the palace, when Le Beau, a courtier of the duke, ap- 
proached and told them of the wrestling-match which 
had begun, and in which Charles had already vanquished 
and laid aside three men, sons of one father; and that 
now, near the very spot where they were sitting, he was 
to try his skill upon Orlando. Ready for any new pleas- 
ure, they both decided to remain and witness the contest. 
Frederick saw them and drew near, informing them that 
the contestants were unequally matched, and that both 
he and Charles had tried to dissuade Orlando from engag- 
ing with the well-trained wrestler, but that he would not 
listen to their entreaties. He asked the young ladies to 
call Orlando and use their eloquence, so that he would 
withdraw. It was of no avail. All the reply that he 
would give them was: — 

" Let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to 
my trial; wherein if I be foil'd, there is but one shamed 
that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is 



34 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I 
have none to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I 
have nothing; only in the world I fill up a place, which 
may be better supplied when I have made it empty." 

Encouraged by tne ladies with their best wishes, and 
knowing that their eyes were upon his every movement, 
Orlando began to wrestle, and did his very best to beat 
his opponent. He was successful. Charles was thrown 
and carried away insensible. 

Frederick. What is thy name, young man? 

Orlando. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir 
Roland de Bois. 

Frederick. I would thou hadst been son to some man 
else. 
The world esteemed thy father honourable, 
But I did find him still mine enemy: 
Thou shouldst have better pleased me with this deed, 
Hadst thou descended from another House. 
But fare thee well; thou art a gallant youth: 
I would thou hadst told me of another father. 

The girls called Orlando to them and gave congratula- 
tions on his victory. Rosalind took a chain off her neck 
and handed it to him with the words, — 

"Wear this for me, one out of suits with fortune, 
That could give more, but that her hand lacks means." 

Rosalind became deeply interested in Orlando, — so 
much so that, after the wrestling-match was over and he 
had gone away, her seriousness was so pronounced that 
Celia felt it and chided her about it. Then, too, each 
day she felt the separation from her father more and more. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 35 

The splendors of the court palled upon her, knowing that 
the throne was rightfully her father's, and that she was 
receiving from another what belonged to her in virtue of 
her birth. Celia would tease her about Orlando. One 
morning the two were talking of him. 

Celia. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall 
into so strong a liking with old Sir Roland's youngest son? 

Rosalind. The Duke my father loved his father dearly. 

Celia. Doth it therefore follow that you should love 
his son dearly? By this kind of chase, I should hate 
him, for my father hated his father dearly; yet I hate not 
Orlando. 

Wishing to drop the subject, Rosalind exclaimed, " Look, 
here comes the Duke." 

" With his eyes full of anger," answered her cousin. 

It may seem strange, but for some time her uncle had 
been looking upon Rosalind with displeasure, though for 
Celia's sake he had detained her, against her strongest 
wishes, from joining her father in his forest home. He 
could not but see that the memory of her father, joined 
with her many personal excellencies, had made her a 
favorite with the people. He drew near the girls, ex- 
claiming as he looked at Rosalind, — 

" Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste, 
And get you from our Court." 

She begged to know his reasons, and pleaded innocence 
of any offense. He hinted treachery, and told her that 
he could not trust her. 

Frederick. Thou art thy father's daughter; there's 
enough. 



36 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

Rosalind. So was I when your Highness took his 
dukedom; 
So was I when your Highness banish'd him. 

Celia interposed, urging that if Kosalind was a traitor, 
she herself, from her constant intimacy with her, mast 
also be one. 

Frederick. Her smoothness, 

Her very silence, and her patience, 
Speak to the people, and they pity her. 
Thou art a fool: she robs thee of thy name; 
And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous 
When she is gone. Then open not thy lips: 
Firm and irrevocable is my doom 
Which I have pass'd upon her: she is banish'd. 

Celia. Pronounce that sentence, then, on me, my liege : 
I cannot live out of her company. 

" You are a fool," he said, and turned away. 

Rosalind knew not whither to turn her steps, but Celia 
insisted that no matter where she went she would follow 
her. Whither and how? they asked each other many 
times. But ten days being allowed Rosalind to be gone, 
her life being forfeit if she were found within a radius of 
twenty miles, her preparations were necessarily hurried. 
To save themselves from insult and detection they de- 
cided to go disguised, Celia in poor and mean attire, with 
face darkened with umber, and Rosalind, who was very 
tall, dressed as a man, carrying an ax and a spear in 
her hands. As they would wander from place to place, 
Rosalind was to answer to the name of Ganymede, Celia 
to that of Aliena. They gathered up their jewels and all 
the money they could command, and, as an afterthought, 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 37 

decided that they would persuade Touchstone, the clown 
of the court, to accompany them. Knowing that Celia's 
flight must be secret and that she would be pursued as 
soon as it was discovered, they made these preparations 
very quietly, and yet with great precision, and success- 
fully carried them out. 

Rosalind's father, the exiled duke, was not unhappy, 
shorn of the pomp and glory which attached to the duke- 
dom, but enjoyed the freedom of the new life he led, and 
discoursed of its advantages to his friends: — 

" Sweet are the uses of adversity; 
Which, like the toad, ugly and, venomous, 
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head: 
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing: 
I would not change it." 

Amiens, one of his friends in banishment, answered: — 

"Happy is your Grace, 
That can translate the stubbornness of fortune 
Into so quiet and so sweet a style." 

Quite different from the sweet content that the aged 
duke and his followers felt, was the dismay that followed 
the flight of Rosalind and Celia and their humble friend, 
the clown. Frederick was in a rage when he heard of it, 
and cried: — 

"Can it be possible that no man saw them? 
It cannot be: some villains of my Court 
Are of consent and sufferance in this." 

Hesperia, Celia's waiting-maid, told of having over- 
heard the cousins speaking in praise of Orlando, and 



38 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

immediately it was concluded that he was a party to their 
flight. Messengers were dispatched to bring him to the 
palace, or in case of his absence, his brother Oliver was 
to be brought instead. 

After the wrestling-match, hearing Orlando's praises 
sounded everywhere, Oliver had grown suspicious and 
hated him more than ever; and with murderous intent 
decided that he would put him out of the way, so that 
he might never again cross his pathway. Adam, the 
servant, watched Orlando's interests with an acute ear and 
a sharp eye, and clung devotedly to him. He overheard 
his master making arrangements to burn Orlando's lodg- 
ing place the night after he would return home from a 
visit, when he would be sound asleep and there would be 
no possibility of his escaping. Adam watched for Or- 
lando and told him of his brother's designs, and, when 
the latter resolved to leave home, declared his intention 
to go along with him, saying that he would furnish the 
money for their support till Orlando could obtain employ- 
ment. No time could be lost; and gathering together 
what they needed, they left the place to seek a home 
where they would be more welcome, and where one at 
least would be free from apprehensions of danger. 

Weary, tired, and sick at heart, did Rosalind and Celia 
and Touchstone pursue their lonely way, the last in a 
more complaining mood than either of his companions. 
Passing two shepherds just as they entered the great 
Forest of Arden, they entered into conversation with 
Silvius, the younger of the two. Not far off from them 
were lords, self-exiled with the duke, — Amiens, Jaques, 
and several others, — talking merrily, and singing songs 
suited to their simple, sylvan life. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 39 

"The Duke will drink under this tree," said Amiens, 
and they made ready the meal of such food as they had 
at hand. In nearness to them, and yet far enough away 
to remain undiscovered, two men journeyed, the one an 
old man with tottering steps, the younger one assisting 
him and trying to comfort him with the prospect of food 
and rest before them. 

Scarcely were the duke and his attendants seated at 
their primitive repast, when Orlando came unannounced 
into their midst, and, being asked to share the meal, 
begged food for one who, he told them, was in want, gen- 
erously saying, — 

"Till he be first sufficed, — 
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger, — 
I will not touch a bit." 

" Go find him out, and we will nothing waste till you 
return," answered the master of the meal. 

As Orlando went out, Lord Jaques observed: — 

"All the world's a stage, 
And all the men and women merely players: 
They have their exits and their entrances; 
And one man in his time plays many parts, 
His acts being seven ages. As, first, the infant: 

* * * ^ >jc 

Last scene of all, 
That ends this strange eventful history, 
Is second childishness and mere oblivion, 
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing." 

Orlando returned, bringing Adam with him, and here 
they found an asylum from the malice of the wicked 
Oliver. 



40 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

When Frederick's messengers went to Oliver's house to 
fetch Orlando, the latter could not be found, and his 
brother was borne back to the palace instead. Angry at 
his protestations that he knew nothing about Orlando, 
and not believing him, Frederick bade him go and seek 
him, and to bring him dead or alive into his presence 
within a twelvemonth, or to leave France himself, all his 
possessions being confiscate to him, the duke. 

" 0, that your Highness knew my heart in this ! I 
never loved my brother in my life," said Oliver, willing 
to confess his dislike so that he might clear himself. 

The duke replied: — 

"More villain thou. — Well, push him out of doors; 
And let my officers of such a nature 
Make an extent upon his house and lands: 
Do this expediently, and turn him going." 

Into the forest with him Orlando carried the memory 
of Rosalind. Sad and alone, he thought of her more 
each day and hour. Perhaps it was the sadness of his 
state, perhaps it was the quiet and the surroundings of 
the great wood that turned his thoughts to poetry, but 
he began to be sentimental — to write verses and hang 
them on the boughs of the trees, — -verses about Rosalind, 
whom he thought so far away from him and so far above 
him that he never hoped to reach her. 

Disguised in the dress with which she had escaped 
from her uncle's palace, Rosalind was wandering in the 
wood and found one of these poetic effusions, with no 
clew to the writer, nor a hint of what Rosalind was 
meant. Celia also picked up one of the papers, and 
made a discovery besides. She saw Orlando himself sit- 
ting under a tree, the embodiment of unhappiness. 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 41 

Whilst she was telling Rosalind of this, he and Jaques 
were seen in the near distance, and the ladies, who in 
their disguise were free from detection, thought best that 
they immediately withdraw. The two men were talking 
of Rosalind, and Jaques was twitting his companion 
about her. Evidently they did not agree in what they 
were saying, and Jaques walked off. Not apprehending 
recognition, Celia and Rosalind approached Orlando and 
the latter began talking to him. Before they separated 
he had promised to call at the cot where they lived and 
continue their acquaintance. 

Before they separated, Orlando and Ganymede had 
agreed to play at Orlando and Rosalind — he not knowing 
that in the youth before him dressed as a man he beheld 
the true object of his love. The play was carried out 
successfully, and the acting of Rosalind was so good that 
he did not discover who she really was till it was all over. 
She, or rather he, Ganymede, had promised Orlando that 
if he would visit him he would cure him of the love he 
had for the absent Rosalind, whom he had left but re- 
cently at her uncle's court receiving the attentions that 
belonged to her rank. 

The hour passed and another appointment was made. 

He did not call at the hour appointed, and Rosalind 
was very much distressed. Both she and Celia freely 
expressed their opinion of one who would not keep an 
appointment, and words were passing about him, when 
Corin, a shepherd, appeared and asked them to go forth 
and look upon a scene that he thought would please 
them. Just then Orlando called. 

Orlando. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind. 



42 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

Rosalind. Why, how now, Orlando! Where have 
you been all this while? You a lover! An you serve 
me such another trick, never come in my sight more. 

Orlando. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of 
my promise. 

The forest, great and vast and wide, the sylvan home 
of those who had no other, was witness-ground of many 
pretty little love scenes — shepherds wooing fair shep- 
herdesses — even our simple-minded Touchstone falling 
deeply in love with Audrey, a maid as unsophisticated as 
himself. 

How many acts, how many scenes there might have 
been in Rosalind's play we know not; for Oliver suddenly 
appeared upon the stage and interrupted the carrying out 
of her program, or rather, helped her to make her play 
successful. He appeared to the two cousins as they were 
seated under a great forest tree, and asked the way to the 
very cottage where they dwelt. They gave him fullest 
directions, but notified him that at that hour he would 
find no one at home. 

Oliver. If that an eye may profit by a tongue, 
Then should I know you by description; 
Such garments and such years: "The boy is fair, 
Of female favour, but bestows himself 
Like a right forester; the woman low, 
And browner than her brother." Are not you 
The owners of the house I did inquire for? 

Celia. It is no boast, being ask'd, to say we are. 

Oliver. Orlando doth commend him to you both; 
And to that youth he calls his Rosalind 
He sends this bloody napkin; — are you he? 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 43 

Rosalind. I am: what must we understand by this? 

Oliver. When last the young Orlando parted from you, 
He left a promise to return again 
Within an hour; and, pacing through the forest, 

Lo, what befell! 

Under an oak, whose boughs were moss'd with age, 

And high top bald with dry antiquity, 

A wretched ragged man, o'ergrown with hair, 

Lay' sleeping on his back: about his neck 

A green and gilded snake had wreath'd itself, 

Who with her head, nimble in threats, approach'd 

The opening of his mouth; but suddenly, 

Seeing Orlando, it unlink'd itself, 

And with indented glides did slip away 

Into a bush: under which bush's shade 

A lioness 

Lay couching, head on ground, with catlike watch, 
When that the sleeping man should stir: .... 
This seen, Orlando did approach the man, 
And found it was his brother, his elder brother. 

Celia. 0, 1 have heard him speak of that same brother; 
And he did render him the most unnatural 
That lived 'mongst men. 

Rosalind. But, to Orlando: Did he leave him there ? 

Oliver. Twice did he turn his back, and purposed so; 
But kindness, nobler ever than revenge, 
And nature, stronger than his just occasion, 



44 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

Made him give battle to the lioness, 
Who quickly fell before him: .... 
From which miserable slumber I awaked. 

Celia. Are you his brother ? 

Rosalind. Was it you he rescued? 

Celia. Was 't you that did so oft contrive to kill him? 

Oliver. 'T was I; but 't is not I: I do not shame 
To tell you what I was, since my conversion 
So sweetly tastes, being the thing I am. 

Rosalind. But, for the bloody napkin? — 

Oliver . . Upon his arm 

The lioness had torn some flesh away, 

Which all this while had bled; and now he fainted, 

And cried, in fainting, upon Rosalind. 

Brief, I recover'd him; bound up his wound; 

And, after some small space, being strong at heart, 

He sent me hither, stranger as I am, 

To tell this story, that you might excuse 

His broken promise; and to give this napkin, 

Dyed in his blood, unto the shepherd youth 

That he in sport doth call his Eosalind. 

Rosalind fainted when the napkin was handed to her. 

Celia. Why, how now, Ganymede! sweet Ganymede! 

Oliver. Many will swoon when they do look on blood. 

Celia. There is more in it. — Cousin! — Ganymede! 

Oliver. Look, he recovers I must bear answer 

back 
How you excuse my brother, Rosalind. 

Rosalind. I shall devise something: but, I pray you, 
commend my counterfeiting to him. — Will you go? 

If Orlando loved the absent Rosalind, to whom in her 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 45 

disguise he was playing a part without knowing it, Oliver 
was deeply in love with the one whom he knew only as 
Aliena, the sun-browned sister of the wandering Gany- 
mede. Orlando was surprised to learn that, on so short 
an acquaintance as Oliver had made during his brief call 
to tell of his brother's mishap, he would return to tell 
him of this love. 

Oliver. Say with me, I love Aliena; say with her, that 
she loves me; consent with both, that we may enjoy each 
other: it shall be to your good; for my father's house, 
and all the revenue that was old Sir Roland's, will I 
estate upon you, and here live and die a shepherd. 

Orlando. You have my consent. Let your wedding 
be to-morrow: ... Go you and prepare Aliena; for, look 
you, here comes my Rosalind. 

Orlando told Ganymede of Oliver's love for Aliena. 
Oliver told the story for himself and expressed his desire 
for a speedy marriage. 

Orlando. They shall be married to-morrow; and I 
will bid the Duke to the nuptial. But, 0, how bitter a 
thing it is to look into happiness through another man's 
eyes! By so much the more shall I to-morrow be at 
the height of heart-heaviness, by how much I shall think 
my brother happy in having what he wishes for. 

Rosalind. Why, then to-morrow I cannot serve your 
turn for Rosalind? . . . If you do love Rosalind so near 
the heart as your gesture cries it out, when your brother 
marries Aliena, shall you marry her: . . . it is not im- 
possible to me ... to set her before your eyes to-morrow, 
human as she is, and without any danger. . . . There- 
fore, put you in your best array, bid your friends; for, if 



46 AS YOU LIKE IT.. 

you will be married to-morrow, you shall; and to Rosa- 
lind, if you will. 

In another part of the forest, Orlando sought and found 
the old duke and told him of what Ganymede had said, — 
that he, Ganymede, would produce Rosalind, the duke's 
daughter, and that she should stand as bride to him. 

Duke. Dost thou believe, Orlando, that the boy 
Can do all this that he hath promised? 

Orlando. I sometimes do believe, and sometimes do not ; 
As those that fear to hope, and know they fear. 

Just then Rosalind approached them, and addressing 
the duke, said,— 

"You say, if I bring in your Rosalind, 
You will bestow her on Orlando here?" 

Duke. That would I, had I kingdoms to give with her. 

Rosalind. \_To Orlando.] And you say, you will have 
her, when I bring her? 

Orlando. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king. 

Rosalind. I 've promised to make all this matter even. 
Keep you your word, duke, to give your daughter; — 
You yours, Orlando, to receive his daughter: — 
.... and from hence I go, 
To make these doubts all even. 

As Ganymede went off, the duke said, — 

" I do remember in this shepherd boy 
Some lively touches of my daughter's favour." 

To which Orlando rejoined, — 

" My lord, the first time that I ever saw him 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 47 

Methought he was a brother to your daughter: 
But, my good lord, this boy is forest-born, 
And hath been tutor'd in the rudiments 
Of many desperate studies by his uncle, 
Whom he reports to be a great magician, 
Obscured in the circle of this forest." 

The marriage hour arrived. Not only was there to be 
a double wedding, but a third and fourth couple were to 
appear and be joined in holy matrimony. Touchstone 
and Audrey had asked permission of the duke to join 
their fates, Touchstone saying, — 

"A poor virgin, sir, .... but mine own; a poor 
humour of mine, sir, to take that that no man else will: 
rich honesty dwells like a miser, sir, in a poor house; as 
your pearl in your foul oyster." 

Silvius, the shepherd, who had long loved and wooed 
Phebe, only to be repelled and disappointed time and 
again, was to be present, too. 

On the occasion, one dressed as Hymen approached the 
duke, holding the hand of Celia, dressed in her bridal 
robes, and on his right leading Rosalind, looking herself 
in woman's garb. 

Rosalind. [To the Duke and Orlando.] To you I 
give myself, for I am yours. 

Duke. [Embracing her.~\ If there be truth in sight, 
you are my daughter. 

Orlando. If there be truth in shape, you are my 
Rosalind. 

Rosalind. [Bowing to the Duke.] I'll have no father, 
if you be not he: — 



48 AS YOU LIKE IT. 

[To Orlando.] I '11 have no husband, if you be not he. 

%. * * * * 

Duke. [ Turning to Celia.] my dear niece, welcome 
thou art to me, 
Even daughter-welcome, in no less degree ! 

Just then a stranger — one who had but recently left 
Frederick's court — came into the presence of the duke 
and the nuptial company, and said:— 

"Let me have audience for a word or two: 
I am the second son of old Sir Roland, 
That bring these tidings to this fair assembly: 
Duke Frederick, hearing how that every day 
Men of great worth resorted to this forest, 
Address'd a mighty power; which were on foot, 
In his own conduct, purposely to take 
His brother here, and put him to the sword: 
And to the skirts of this wild wood he came; 
Where meeting with an old religious man, 
After some question with him, was converted' 
Both from his enterprise and from the world; 
His crown bequeathing to his banish 'd brother, 
And all their lands restored to them again 
That were with him exiled. This to be true, 
I do engage my life." 

The duke had listened intently to every word. When 
the stranger guest had ceased talking, he made answer: — 

"Welcome, young man; 
Thou offer 'st fairly to thy brothers' wedding: 
To one, his lands withheld ; and to the other, 
A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. 
First, in this forest, let us do those ends 



AS YOU LIKE IT. 49 

That here were well begun and well begot; 

And after, every of this happy number, 

That have endured shrewd days and nights with us, 

Shall share the good of our returned fortune, 

According to the measure of their states. 

Meantime, forget this new-fall'n dignity, 

And fall into our rustic revelry. — 

Play, music ! — and you, brides and bridegrooms all, 

With measure heap'd in joy, to th' measures fall." 

Jaques, who was standing by, addressed himself to 
Jaques de Bois: — 

"Sir, by your patience: — If I heard you rightly, 
The Duke [Frederick] hath put on a religious life, 
And thrown into neglect the pompous Court?" 
Jaques de Bois. He hath. 

Jaques. To him will I: out of these convertites 
There is much matter to be heard and learn'd. — 
[To the Duke.] You to your former honour I bequeath; 
Your patience and your virtue well deserve it: — 
[To Orlando.] You to a love that your true faith doth 

merit : — 
[To Oliver.] You to your land, and love, and great 
allies. 
Jaques started off. 

Duke. Stay, Jaques, stay. 

Jaques. To see no pastime I: what you would have 
I '11 stay to know at your abandon'd cave. 

The duke, anxious that the festivities should be no 
further interrupted, cried, — 
"Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites, 
As we do trust they '11 end, in true delights." 

4 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 



Peincipal Characters. 

Escalus, Prince of Verona. 

Paris, a young Nobleman, Kinsman to Escalus. 

Montague, 



} 



, Heads of two opposing Houses. 
Capulet, 

An old Man, Uncle to Capulet. 

Eomeo, Son to Montague. 

Mercutio, Friend to Romeo. 

Benvolio, Nephew to Montague, and Friend to Romeo. 

Tybalt, Nephew to Lady Capulet. 

Laurence, a Franciscan Friar. 

John, a Franciscan Friar. 

Balthazar, Servant to Romeo. 

Sampson, 



"'} 



. Servants to Capulet. 
Gregory, 

Abraham, Servant to Montague. 

An Apothecary. 

Musicians. 

A Boy, Page to Paris. 

Peter, Servant to the Nurse. 

An Officer. 

Lady Montague. 

Lady Capulet. 

Juliet, Daughter to Capulet. 

Juliet's Nurse. 

Scene, during the greater part of the Play, in Verona ; once, in the Fifth 
Act, at Mantua. 



52 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 

By William Shakespeare. 



Montague and Capulet, heads of two noble houses in 
the ancient city of Verona, for some cause, undoubtedly 
plain to them, were at deadly variance. So fierce and 
angry was this feud sometimes, that even their servants, 
thinking that they had a part in it, took sides, and would 
meet in public places and boast and swagger of the power 
and prowess of the men they served. Often, in those who 
stood by idly looking on, these words incited ridicule, but 
yet the bootless farce went on and on, and no one saw an 
end to it. 

One day, the story goes, two servants met from each 
opposing side and talked long and loudly of this and 
that, and boasted of law and vengeance, uttering chal- 
lenges which boded no good, and finally drawing their 
swords, when into their midst came Lord and Lady Capulet 
and joined in the fray. By some strange fascination, Lord 
Montague and his noble wife were drawn to the spot. One 
cannot tell what might have been the outcome of the meet- 
ing, had not Verona's prince and rightful heir suddenly 
appeared in sight, surrounded by his attendants. One 
glance convinced him that danger was near to those 
concerned, and in stern tones he addressed them:— 

" Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, 
By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, 

53 



54 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Have thrice disturb 'd the quiet of our streets; 
And made Verona's ancient citizens 
Cast-by their grave beseeming ornaments, 
To wield old partisans, in hands as old, 
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate: 
If ever you disturb our streets again, 
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. 
For this time, all the rest depart away: — 
You, Capulet, shall go along with me; — 
And, Montague, come you this afternoon, 
To know our further pleasure in this case." 

Under a heavy penalty they were bound to keep the 
peace; and one would think that men as old as they 
would be too wise ever to forfeit the penalty. 

Romeo, the handsome son and only child of the Mon- 
tagues, from being a bright and happy man, had sud- 
denly changed, and no means of affection or attention on 
the part of those who loved his interests best had been 
able to draw from him the reason of his sadness. In 
the early morning hours he would rise, unrefreshed by 
sleep, and wander off alone to spots secluded from the 
presence of his friends; and in the hours he passed within 
his home he locked himself in his own room, keeping 
closed doors against any who would seek to enter. His 
mother, even, had lost her hold upon his confidence, and 
grieved and wondered at the cause of his unusual con- 
duct, yet was she powerless to draw the secret from him. 
Benvolio, his cousin, a youth near Romeo's age, in con- 
versation learned that he was in love — in love with 
Rosaline, niece to Capulet, his father's bitterest enemy. 

A party celebrating an anniversary was to be given at 
her uncle's house, to which many rich and noble guests 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 55 

were to be invited — Rosaline among the number. By a 
strange chance, the servant who was intrusted with the 
invitations, and who could not read a word, in his 
perplexity ran against Romeo. Not knowing who he 
was, he handed him the paper containing the names 
of the expected guests and asked him to read them to 
him. Benvolio was standing near by, and advised 
Romeo that now was his opportunity to meet the lady 
he loved, and prophesied that in a mask no one would 
know him. According to the custom of the times most 
of the men wore masks, and it would be easy for Romeo 
to attend in this way. Benvolio had no trouble in per- 
suading him to go, and on the appointed night he made 
ready for the party. 

Lord and Lady Capulet had but one child, a daughter, 
Juliet, only fourteen, just in the promise of her beauti- 
ful girlhood, whose hand was now sought in marriage 
by Paris, a kinsman of the Prince of Verona, and on 
this evening she was to make her first appearance as a 
young lady admitted into society. Paris had obtained 
permission from Juliet's father to woo and win her. 
Unsuspicious of any designs upon her heart, she moved 
among the guests with all eyes fixed upon her in her 
youthful loveliness. The halls were brilliant with 
the beauty and elegance of the guests. Almost im- 
mediately upon Romeo's entrance to the dancing hall, 
his attention was attracted to the lovely Juliet, and 
it was not long till he drew near and managed to 
make her acquaintance. Not knowing who she was, 
he talked unrestrainedly to her till her maid appeared 
and told her that her mother desired her presence. 
Romeo forgot all about Rosaline, so completely had Juliet 



56 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

won his favor. When the guests had all withdrawn, the 
young girl, flushed with the admiration she had received, 
was talking to her maid of them and asking who certain 
of them were. On learning that she had been freely- 
talking to Romeo, the son of an enemy, she exclaimed, in 
an undertone: — 

"My only love sprung from my only hate! 
Too early seen unknown, and known too late! 
Prodigious birth of love it is to me, 
That I must love a loathed enemy ." 

Romeo loved, — yes, Juliet loved also, but both knew 
that his love for her would receive no countenance from 
her parents. One evening, soon after, he scaled the wall 
surrounding her father's orchard, seeking an opportunity 
to see and speak with her* He discovered her seated at 
an open window, and in the darkness heard her say:— 

"0 Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? 
Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; 
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
And I '11 no longer be a Capulet. 

'T is but thy name that is my enemy; 
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. 

0, be some other name! 
What's in a name? that which we call a rose 
By any other name would smell as sweet. 

ifc jfc JJS JJS * 

Romeo, doff thy name; 
And for that name, which is no part of thee, 
Take all myself." 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 57 

Romeo made his presence known by suddenly answer- 
ing:— 

"I take thee at thy word: 
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; 
Henceforth I never will be Romeo." 

Till near the morning hours Romeo lingered near 
her window; it was on the side of the house that 
fronted on the garden, and so he was not detected. 
Knowing the deadly hate with which her father regarded 
everyone in any way related to the Montagues, and that 
she could never gain his consent to a marriage with 
Romeo, Juliet herself proposed a secret marriage, which 
was to take place at an early hour on the following 
morning. Romeo left her and made haste to wait upon 
a priestly father who he knew could be depended on to 
perform the rite of marriage, and made his errand known. 
Looking at the future, where he thought he saw the 
family feud forgotten in the union of the young son and 
daughter of the rival houses, as well as desiring to per- 
fect the happiness of the lovers, the priest assented and 
made ready for the wedding. 

Juliet found little trouble in winning over to her side 
her nurse, the good woman who had taken care of her 
since her birth, and she sent the nurse to meet Romeo 
and learn of the arrangements which he had made. So 
that she might not be suspected of a clandestine meeting 
with him, Juliet went to church apparently to make con- 
fession of her failings and to obtain priestly pardon. 
The words of pardon were changed to words of benedic- 
tion, Romeo and Juliet became one, and the fair bride 
thought that henceforth no fear of an angry father or of 
the unwelcome attentions of the princely suitor whom 



58 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

her father favored would bring a trouble to her. The 
future boded no ill, the rainbow of hope spanned the 
sky of the future of the inexperienced girl; but even 
while she was in the sunshine of hope on her wedding 
day the darkest cloud of her life was hanging over 
her. 

Tybalt, her cousin, a nephew of her mother, had dis- 
covered Romeo under the mask he wore the night of the 
party, and had sworn revenge. With jealous eye he 
watched Romeo, with zealous steps he followed him, 
awaiting his hour. Mercutio and Benvolio were sitting 
in a public place on the afternoon of Romeo's wedding-day, 
when Tybalt and some of his friends drew near. High 
words followed, in the midst of which Romeo, who was 
the occasion of them, appeared. Seeing him, Tybalt 
exclaimed : — 

"Romeo, the hate I bear thee can afford 
No better term than this: Thou art a villain." 

Romeo answered in kindly words, which only angered 
his adversary the more. The words ended in a fight, in 
which Tybalt himself was slain, and Mercutio received a 
wound of which he died soon after. 

Just after the tumult, the prince, attended by his 
retinue, appeared, and near him came, from opposite 
directions, the heads of the houses of Montague and 
Capulet, with their wives and many others. The prince 
halted, and inquired into the cause of the murder. 
Benvolio gave him the account truthfully, but was not 
believed, and all the blame was put upon Romeo. The 
prince seemed prejudiced, and without further investiga- 
tion, pronounced the sentence of exile against him: — 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 59 

"I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; 
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses, 
Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste, 
Else, when he 's found, that hour is his last. 
Bear hence this body, and attend our will: 
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill." 

Romeo fled and hid himself in the cell of the priest 
who had so recently married him. Juliet's nurse carried 
to her young mistress so conflicting an account of the 
affair as to nearly craze her. Of one fact she was sure, 
— Tybalt was dead. Juliet, not knowing of the enmity 
he bore Romeo, mourned for him piteously, as to her he 
had always been a most fair cousin and devoted friend. 
One moment the nurse would declare that Romeo was 
dead, that she had seen him slain; the next that he was 
banished; and at last she affirmed that Friar Laurence 
had him under his care, and that she would arrange to 
have him meet his bride. 

Romeo had fled from the avenging hand of justice, 
even though he knew that his hand was not stained with 
Tybalt's blood by premeditation. He hoped to make 
the whole affair plain when the excitement had died 
down, but the priest's words were not reassuring: — 

"Hence from Verona art thou banished: 
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide." 

Romeo's grief at the news of his banishment was dread- 
ful. To him the word meant more than death. The priest 
attempted consolation: — 

"I '11 give thee armour to keep off that word; 
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, 
To comfort thee, though thou art banished." 



60 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Eomeo in bitterness answered: — 

"Yet banished? Hang np philosophy! 
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, 
Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, 
It helps not, it prevails not: talk no more/' 

While they were talking, Juliet's nurse, having recov- 
ered from her fright, knocked at the friar's door. She 
was admitted, and brought news of Juliet's sorrow which 
alarmed the young husband. Acting on the priest's 
advice, with the secret assistance of the nurse Eomeo 
planned to visit Juliet after nightfall and make all things 
plain to her, convincing her that it would be safer for him 
to go to Mantua and remain there till the proper time 
came to tell the world of his marriage. Then he thought 
friends would be reconciled, the pardon of the prince 
could be obtained, and he could return and take up his 
residence again in Verona. 

The day, begun in brightness, brought sorrow to more 
than Eomeo and Juliet. The latter's father and mother 
knew naught of their daughter's alliance with the son of 
their enemy. They favored the suit of the young Count 
Paris, and in the evening, of the day of Tybalt's death 
were sitting in a room in their house talking of it and 
of the offer he had made. 

Capulet. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily, 
That we have had no time to move our daughter. 
Look you, she loved her kinsman Tybalt dearly, 
And so did I. — Well, we were born to die. — 
'T is very late, she'll not come down to-night: 
I promise you, but for your company, 
I would have been a-bed an hour ago. 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 61 

Paris. These times of woe afford no time to woo. — 
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter. 

Capulet seemed more in haste for Juliet's marriage to 
the count than did the count himself, and made promise 
that on the Thursday following (it was then Monday) the 
wedding should be consummated. Lady Capulet was 
told to carry her father's decision to Juliet ere she retired 
that night. 

The morning was advancing. Notified by the faithful 
nurse, Romeo, who had spent the night with his bride, 
made good his escape ere Lady Capulet entered her 
daughter's room. Morning was lighting up the world, 
and Juliet was up with the morning. Upon her mother's 
announcement of the arrangements that her father had 
made, Juliet gave most decided opposition to marrying 
Count Paris, whom she scarcely knew, and who, she 
stoutly averred, had never made any attempt to woo her. 
Lady Capulet was perplexed, and was glad when she 
heard her husband's footsteps coming in the direction of 
Juliet's room. He was enraged when he heard that 
Juliet refused the count's offer and dared to defy his 
authority over her. Nothing that she could say, no plea 
that she could make, softened his anger toward her. Thus 
he raved: — 

"Disobedient wretch! 

I tell thee what, get thee to church o' Thursday, 

Or never after look me in the face: 

Speak not, reply not, do not answer me; 

My fingers itch. — Wife, we scarce thought us bless'd 

That God had sent us but this only child; 

But now I see this one is one too much, 

And that we have a curse in having her. 



62 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

It makes me mad: day, night, late, early, 
At home, abroad, alone, in company, 
Waking, or sleeping, still my care hath been 
To have her match'd: and having now provided 
A gentleman of princely parentage, 
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, 

To answer I HI not wed, — I cannot love, 
I am too young, — I pray you, pardon me." 

He bade her make all her preparations for Thursday, 
and declared that she should have his blessing if she 
did so, but that if she refused, his doors would shut for- 
ever upon her, no matter what happened. He left the 
room with dreadful threats upon his lips. Juliet sought 
her mother's influence and interposition, begging that 
more time might be allowed her. She was as firm as 
her husband: — 

" Talk not to me, for I '11 not speak a word : 
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee." 

Even the nurse advised that, considering Romeo's ban- 
ishment and the dark outlook ahead, Juliet had better 
accept the count's offer and become his bride. Driven 
to distraction by those she had always trusted, and seeing 
desertion and want ahead, she resolved to seek comfort 
from another friend. Said she: — 

"I'll to the friar, to know his remedy: 
If all else fail, myself have power to die." 

In haste she fled alone to Friar Laurence's house for 
his advice. Whom should she meet there but Paris, 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 63 

the man whom above all others she would have avoided. 
He showed great joy in meeting her, and, not knowing 
of her determination never to marry him, spoke in loving 
words of the day that was to make her his. She evaded 
giving him answer, and parried all his words so success- 
fully that no suspicion of her refusal to marry him 
entered his mind. 

As he passed out, she cried, — 

" 0, shut the door ! and, when thou Uast done so, 
Come weep with me ; past hope, past cure, past help ! " 

The priest told her that he knew all, and that there 
seemed but little hope of escape for her, and that he 
knew not how to help her. Her despair was desperation. 

Juliet. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, 
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it: 
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help, 
Do thou but call my resolution wise, 
And with this knife I '11 help it presently. 

Friar. Hold, daughter: I do spy a kind of hope, 
Which craves as desperate an execution 
As that is desperate which we would prevent. 

And then the friar told her to go home and give her 
consent to marrying Paris, and seem to make ready for 
the event. He advised that on "Wednesday night, when 
all the preparations were finished, she insist on being left 
alone till morning — that her nurse should rest in some 
other room. He gave her a vial that contained a drug of 
anaesthetic properties. He told her how to take it, and of 
its effect upon her — that she would become cold and 
drowsy, and that her pulse would be so low that to one 



64 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

who felt for it it would seem to have stopped; that no 
breathing could be detected; that her lips and cheeks 
would turn to ashy paleness; that the eyelids would sink 
as if in death; that the whole body would be stiff 
and stark and cold; and that under the influence of this 
medicine she would lie as one dead for forty-two hours, 
when she would waken refreshed as from a pleasant sleep. 

Friar. In thy best robes, uncover'd, on the bier, 

Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault 

Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. 

In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, 
: Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; 

And hither shall he come: and he and I 
! Will watch thy waking, and that very night 
1 Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. 

And this shall free thee from this present shame; 

If no inconstant toy, nor womanish fear, 

Abate thy valour in the acting it. 

Juliet. Give me, 0, give me ! tell me not of fear. 

Love give me strength ! and strength shall help afford. 

Instructed by the priest how to act, Juliet hastened 
home and sought her father's pardon for her seeming 
disobedience. Delighted with the prospect of the con- 
summation of his wishes for her settlement in life, he 
gave orders to make ready for the wedding-feast, and 
that confectioners and cooks should furnish a repast 
'befitting the occasion. Deceived by Juliet's unwonted 
cheerfulness, which he took as an augury for good, he 
sought the count to offer congratulations. 

Night came on, and everything being complete as to 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 65 

her attire, Juliet begged that she might be left alone for 
the night. Lady Capulet and the nurse withdrew, and 
then a dread uneasiness concerning the result of what 
she was about to do seized the poor girl. "What if the 
mixture which the friar had given her should not work 
as he had told her; or what if, instead of a sleeping po- 
tion, he had purposely given her a poison? What if 
she should waken before the time appointed for Romeo 
to come and rescue her ? What if she should waken all 
alone in the dismal vault and be frightened into real 
death by the terrors of the tomb which contained the 
bones of a century of her dead, with Tybalt's fresh corpse 
before her ? Almost distracted with these dread thoughts, 
she yet was true to her love for Romeo, and had the 
courage to swallow the medicine that Laurence gave her. 
The father saw the count, and returned home too 
delighted to allow himself to seek sleep that night. He 
went through the house giving commands in such pro- 
fusion that the servants were almost beside themselves. 
In the early morning Count Paris and his brilliant suite 
approached the house, heralded by a band of musicians. 
Capulet gave orders that Juliet should be wakened and 
made ready for the bridegroom. The nurse went to her 
chamber, opened the door, and entered, surprised that 
Juliet should be so unmindful of the day as to be still 
sound asleep. Approaching the couch, she perceived 
that her charge had arrayed herself in her wedding 
clothes and then lain down and gone to sleep, as she 
supposed, for the second time. Instead of sleeping, she 
appeared to be dead, and in wild tones the nurse screamed 
for the family to come and share her grief with her. 
Lord Capulet's delight and joy were suddenly turned 



66 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

into mourning. His wife hung over Juliet's body, ex- 
claiming, — 

" She 's dead, she 's dead, she 's dead ! " 

Looking upon her apparently lifeless body, the father 
said, — 

"Life and these lips have long been separated: 
Death lies on her like an untimely frost 
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field." 

Expecting to see his bride waiting to meet him, Paris, 
the bridegroom, with Friar Laurence, who was to perform 
the nuptial ceremony, entered the garden, the musicians 
playing their gayest music. With no warning that the 
house had been turned into a house of mourning, the 
count advanced to claim his bride. 

Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? 

Capulet. Eeady to go, but never to return. — 
O son! the night before thy wedding-day 
Hath Death lain with thy bride. 

Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; 
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die, 
And leave him all; life, living, all is Death's. 

Overwhelmed at the suddenness of his bereavement, 
Paris stood and looked upon the still body. 

Paris. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, 
And doth it give me such a sight as this? 
* * * * * 
Most detestable Death, by thee beguiled, 
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! — 
love ! life! not life, but love in death! 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 67 

Her father heeded not the count's grief, so great was 
his own: — 

"0 child! child! my soul, and not my child! . 
Dead art thou, dead ! — alack, my child is dead 
And with my child my joys are buried!" 

Laurence, deep-plotting Laurence, who was looking to 
Juliet's reanimation, here offered consolation: — 

"Heaven and yourself 
Had part in this fair maid; now Heaven hath all, 
And all the better is it for the maid : 
Your part in her you could not keep from death; 
But Heaven keeps His part in eternal life. 
The most you sought was her promotion; 
For 't was your Heaven she should be advanced : 
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanced 
Above the clouds, as high as Heaven itself?" 

The bridal party changed their songs of joy to a 
funeral dirge, and moved with solemn tread to the gloomy 
tomb, and there placed in safe keeping all that was left 
of Juliet, the fair daughter of the house of Capulet. 

Laurence had sent Romeo a letter with full account of 
all that concerned Juliet, and of the plans that he had 
made for reuniting them, but on account of the dread 
pestilence that was then ravaging Mantua, the messenger 
was not allowed to enter the city, and returned to Verona 
bringing the letter back with him. 

Romeo, exiled from home and ignorant of all that had 
transpired during his absence, was trying to lessen the 
dreariness of his condition with dreams of return to 
Juliet, when his musing was interrupted by the entrance 
of Balthazar, his friend, who brought him news of Juliet's 



68 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

decease and sad burial. His errand done, Balthazar had 
turned away, leaving Romeo with the resolve that he 
would join Juliet's spirit by a quick method of which he 
had heard — poison. He went to an apothecary, bought 
the drug, and hastened to Juliet's tomb. 

Laurence, seeing his plans frustrated, made ready to be 
near by when Juliet should waken, so that he might 
bear her to a place of concealment till he could get 
Romeo word to come and bear her away under cover of 
darkness to Mantua. 

Paris, whose grief at Juliet's death was sincere, went in 
the darkness of the night to strew her grave with flowers. 
No one accompanied him but his page, who stood off at 
some distance to give warning should anyone approach. 

Paris. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew: 
woe, thy canopy is dust and stones! 
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew ; 
Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans: 
The obsequies that I for thee will keep, 
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep. 

Just then the page gave the appointed signal that 
some one was drawing near. It was Romeo and Bal- 
thazar. The latter had not been apprised why Romeo 
sought the tomb, but seeing in his words and whole 
appearance the determination of a desperate man, 
received his last commissions and hastened away, not 
leaving the grounds, however, but seeking a place of 
concealment near by. Romeo began his work of break- 
ing open the door of the monument, talking to himself 
meanwhile, when a voice interrupted: — 

"Stop thy unhallow'd toil, vile Montague! 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 69 

Can vengeance be pursued further than death ? 
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee: 
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die." 

He recognized the voice of Paris. The latter, being in 
ignorance of the love of Juliet for Romeo, was so ab- 
sorbed in his own grief that Romeo's words seemed to 
him fraught with evil omen, and he answered him in 
such a way that a desperate fight followed. Paris was 
killed, with his dying breath begging, — 

"If thou be merciful, 
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet." 

Romeo took up the body and laid it in the tomb, and 
seeing the body of his own loved bride lying so lifelike 
near him, he said: — 

"Ah, dear Juliet, 
Why art thou yet so fair ? shall I believe 
That unsubstantial Death is amorous ? 

0, here 
Will I set up my everlasting rest. 

Here's to my love! — true apothecary! 

Thy drugs are quick. — Thus with a kiss I die." 

He drank the fatal poison, lay down near Juliet, and 
died. Friar Laurence, knowing that the hour had come 
for Juliet to waken, entered the churchyard to be near 
her when the moment came. Discovering Balthazar in 
hiding, he inquired the reason, and was told of Romeo's 
actions. Balthazar refused to go where he had left the 
latter, and Laurence entered the tomb alone. He saw 



70 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

that the entrance was covered with blood, that two gory 
swords lay near by, and that inside the monument lay 
the dead bodies of Paris and Romeo, the one covered 
with his own lifeblood, the other, rigid and colorless. He 
exclaimed, — 

"Romeo! 0, pale! Who else? what, Paris too! 
And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour!" 

Just then Juliet opened her eyes and stirred. " Where 
is my Romeo?" she asked. Fully awakened, she saw 
the dead bodies of the two men who loved her, and 
no persuasion of the priest could draw her from the 
place. Hearing a noise outside and fearing capture, she 
snatched the dagger of Romeo, which was lying near, 
and thrust it through her heart. Falling on Romeo's 
body, she almost instantly expired. In life they were 
separated, but in death their spirits were inseparably 
united. As the watchmen paced their nightly rounds 
they came in different places upon Balthazar and the 
friar, and, suspecting something wrong, placed them under 
arrest. Early in the morning the prince and his attend- 
ants entered the churchyard. Not long after, the Capulet 
family and some friends appeared, bearing in every look 
and movement the presence of the deep sorrow which had 
fallen unheralded upon them. As they passed along the 
street they heard a strange outcry of the people — " Romeo ! " 
"Juliet!" "Paris!" — and everyone was running towards 
their monument. Following not far behind the Capu- 
lets came Romeo's father, Montague, mourning as he 
walked along over the sudden death of his wife, who 
had died of grief when she heard of her son's exile. 
The prince cried out, as he saw Montague drawing near 
the multitude, — 



ROMEO AND JULIET. 71 

"Come, Montague; for thou art early up, 
To see thy son and heir more early down." 

Laurence, whom the whole populace respected, was 
called upon to give explanation of the triple tragedy. 
He told of Romeo's secret marriage, and of the sleeping 
potion he had given Juliet to thwart her second union to 
a man who was unloved, and of his intention to have her 
transferred to Mantua at his earliest convenience after 
her return to consciousness. Balthazar and the page 
then testified of what they knew of Romeo's visit to the 
tomb, and of his encounter with Paris. Juliet's death 
spoke for itself. The prince was moved, and cried aloud 
so that all men near by might hear him, — 

" Capulet, — Montague, 
See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate ! " 

Capulet. brother Montague, give me thy hand: 
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more 
Can I demand. 

Montague. But I can give thee more: 
For I will raise her statue in pure gold; 
That, while Verona by that name is known, 
There shall no figure at such rate be set 
As that of true and faithful Juliet. 

Capulet. As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie; 
Poor sacrifices of our enmity ! 

The prince looked upon this ending of the ancient 
feud, and exclaimed: — 

" A gloomy peace this morning with it brings; 
The Sun, for sorrow, will not show his head. 



72 ROMEO AND JULIET. 

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; 
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: 
For never was a story of more woe 
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo." 




2» V 



o 

■SI 






HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 



Principal Characters. 

Claudius, King of Denmark. 

Hamlet, Son of the former King, and Nephew of the present King. 

Polonius, Lord Chamberlain to the King. 

Horatio, Friend to Hamlet. 

Laertes, Son of Polonius. 

Voltimand, 



Cornelius, 
Eosencrantz, 
Guildenstern, . 
A Priest. 
Marcellus, 



> Courtiers. 



} 



'Officers. 
Bernardo, ■ 

Francisco, a Soldier. 

Eeynaldo, Servant to Polonius. 

Ghost of Hamlet's Father. 

Fortinbras, Prince of Norway. 

Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and Mother of Hamlet. 

Ophelia, Daughter of Polonius. 

Scene, at Elsinore. 



74 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

By William Shakespeare. 



The clock struck twelve. 'T was midnight's solemn 
hour. The moon and stars with a mellow light hung 
over the ancient city. In palace and in cot the lamps 
had been put out or were burning low, and the busy- 
citizens were seeking, in rest and sleep, relief from the 
cares and toils of the day gone by, and fresh vigor for the 
one that was just approaching. An officer, Bernardo, and 
a soldier, Francisco, who were watchmen of the night, 
stopped as they passed in their round and hailed each 
other. Francisco moved off, and Bernardo was joined by 
Horatio and Marcellus. In mysterious whispers they 
talked of some strange apparition that had been seen the 
previous night by two of them, and Horatio, who was in- 
credulous, asked for the story in full. Bernardo began to 
rehearse it, when Marcellus suddenly, exclaimed, — 

" Peace, break thee off ; look, where it comes again ! " 

Horatio was convinced, and to Bernardo's question, 
"Looks it not like the King?" answered, — 

"Most like: it harrows me with fear and wonder." 

Turning to the stranger, — whether man or spirit, — 
he asked, — 

"What art thou, that usurp'st this time of night, 
Together with that fair and warlike form 

75 



76 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

In which the Majesty of buried Denmark 
Did sometimes march? by Heaven I charge thee, 
speak!" 

At these words the unearthly visitant walked away. 

Marcellus. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead 
hour, 
With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch. 

Horatio. In what particular thought to work I know 
not; 
But, in the gross and scope of my opinion, 
This bodes some strange eruption to our State. 

Horatio and Bernardo began talking of matters con- 
nected with the late king, and a treaty which he had 
made with Fortinbras, Prince of Norway, when, lo! the 
ghost (for such they both now regarded it) reentered. 
Horatio again addressed it: — 

"Stay, illusion! 
If thou hast any sound, or use of. voice, 
Speak to me: 

If there be any good thing to be done, 
That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, 
Speak to me: 

If thou art privy to thy country's fate, 
Which happily foreknowing may avoid, 
0, speak!" 

The two men attempted to catch and hold it, but just 
then the crowing of a cock was heard and the ghost dis- 
appeared. 

Horatio. I have heard, 

The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 77 

Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat 
Awake the god of day ; and at his warning, 
Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, 
Th' extravagant and erring spirit hies 
To his confine: and of the truth herein 
This present object made probation. 

Marcellus. It faded on the crowing of the cock. 
Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
The bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome ; then no planets strike, . 
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 

They agreed that Hamlet, the son of the old King 
Hamlet, ought to be told of what they had witnessed; 
they thought that the spirit would converse with him, 
though it had refused to speak a word to them. 

Hamlet, the young prince, had been a student in the 
famous school at Wittenberg. Between him and his 
father there had been strong bonds of love and confidence, 
as well as the natural bond of kinship. His father's 
sudden death, with strong hints that it was one of 
violence, followed in a month by his mother's marriage 
to Claudius, his uncle, cast a gloom over him that nothing 
had yet dispelled. The court had met in stately council 
to take action against the threatened invasion of their 
borders by Fortinbras, nephew of the reigning king of 
Norway, and son of the former king, to recover certain 
lands ceded to Denmark by his father; and after due de- 
liberation they dispatched envoys to the court of their 
royal neighbor. Hamlet was present, and when the king 



78 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

and queen and councilors withdrew, he remained in the 
council chamber in deep study. He was interrupted by 
the entrance of Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus. After 
cordial greetings, Horatio turned the talk to the elder 
Hamlet. 

Hamlet. He was a man, take him for all in all, 
I shall not look upon his like again. 

Horatio. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight. 
Hamlet Saw who? 

For God's love, let me hear. 

Horatio then told Hamlet of the spirit, and of the per- 
fect resemblance it bore, both in appearance and in man- 
ner, to his father. He said that it wore a countenance 
more in sorrow than in anger; that it was armed, and 
looked steadily at him; but that when he spoke to it, it 
made no answer, but vanished with the crowing of the 
cock. 

Hamlet. I will watch to-night. 

Perchance 't will walk again. 

Farewell. 

The messengers were gone. Hamlet was greatly 
troubled, and exclaimed: — 

" My father's spirit in arms ! all is not well ; 
I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! 
Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise, 
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes." 

Ophelia and Laertes, daughter and son to Polonius, 
lord chamberlain to Claudius, the king, loved each other 



HAMLET, PRINCE OP DENMARK. 79 

as sister and brother rarely do. The brother was almost 
like a mother in his tender care of his sister, and Ophelia 
loved Laertes too well not to respect his word and value 
his thoughtfulness. Hamlet had been showing her many 
favors, which she had received apparently with pleasure, 
as scarce a fair maiden in the kingdom would have failed 
to do from so noble a prince as he, who, besides possessing 
rare personal endowments, would sometime succeed to the 
throne. Laertes was on the eve of his departure for 
France, and he and Ophelia were spending the last mo- 
ments at home together,, when they were interrupted by 
the entrance of their father. He came to tell the youth 
that the sails were spread and his ship was waiting for 
him. Laying his hand upon Laertes's head, Polonius 
said: — 

"There; my blessing with thee! 
And these few precepts in thy memory 
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, 
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. 
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, 
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel. 

* * * :K * 

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: 
Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. 
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, 
But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: 
For the apparel oft proclaims the man. 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be : 
For loan oft loses both itself and friend; 
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 



80 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

This above all: To thine own self be true; 
And it must follow, as the night the day, 
Thou canst not then be false to any man. 
Farewell ; my blessing season this in thee ! " 

Laertes. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. 

Polonius. The time invites you; go, your servants tend. 

Laertes. Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well 
What I have said to you. 

Ophelia. 'T is in my memory lock'd, 

And you yourself shall keep the key of it. 

Polonius. What is % Ophelia, he hath said to you? 

She told her father that Laertes, having noticed the 
attentions that Prince Hamlet had been paying her, had 
warned her not to receive them as if every word he said 
were sincere, but to think upon his extreme youth, and re- 
member that, even though he might make constant pro- 
fessions of deepest love to her, and might indeed love 
her with his whole soul, the state, which would con- 
trol his marriage, might, for politic reasons, choose some 
other lady to be princess, and set all thought of his love 
for her aside. 

Polonius indorsed what his son had said; and to her 
brother's entreaties that she should be chary in her inter- 
course with Hamlet, added his word of authority that 
she see but little of him, and that when she did see him, 
the rule of conduct which he gave her was to be observed 
in the future between her lover and herself. 

Hamlet, with Horatio and Marcellus, was watching 
for the ghost. Just at midnight it appeared, and, drawing 
near the three friends, with finger pointed at Hamlet it 
beckoned him to follow. He started at its bidding, but 
Horatio and Marcellus both interposed. 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 81 

Marcellus. You shall not go, my lord. 

Hamlet. Hold off your hands ! 

Horatio. Be ruled; you shall not go. 

The ghost motioned again, and Hamlet, breaking from 
them, cried: — 

" By Heaven, I '11 make a ghost of him that lets me ! 
I say, away! — Go on; I '11 follow thee." 

When out of the hearing of the others, the ghost ad- 
dressed Hamlet: — 

"I am thy father's spirit; 
Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night, 
And for the day confined to fast in fires, 
Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature 
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid 
To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood; 
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; 
Thy knotted and combined locks to part, 
And each particular hair to stand on end. 

If thou didst ever thy dear father love, 

Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. 

Now, Hamlet, hear: 
'T is given out that, sleeping in my orchard, 
A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark 
Is by a forged process of my death 
Rankly abused: but know, thou noble youth, 



82 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

The serpent that did sting thy father's life 
Now wears his crown. 



Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, 
My custom always in the afternoon, 
Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, 
With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, 
And in the porches of mine ears did pour 
The leperous distilment; whose effect 
Holds such an enmity wi' th' blood of man, 
That swift as quicksilver it courses through 
The natural gates and alleys of the body; 
And with a sudden vigour it doth posset 
And curd, like eager droppings into milk, 
The thin and wholesome blood: so did it mine. 

Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand 

Of life, of crown, of Queen, at once dispatch'd; 

Cut off even in the blossom of my sins, 

With all my imperfections on my head. 

Fare thee well at once ! 
The glow-worm shows the matin to be near, 
And 'gins to pale his uneffectual fire: 
Adieu, adieu, adieu ! remember me." 

The spirit made Hamlet promise that he would avenge 
his father's death upon his uncle, but that in all he did 
naught must be done against Queen Gertrude, his mother, 
whom his father had in life devotedly loved and trusted. 

Horatio and Marcellus, on the watch for the return of 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF- DENMARK. 83 

the prince from his strange interview, hailed him as the 
ghost vanished, and begged to know its import. Know- 
ing that he could not tell what he knew about the king 
without implicating the queen, he refused to divulge 
anything; but instead, he persuaded both of them to 
swear upon his sword never to make known what they 
had seen that night and never to speak of it, no matter 
what the inducements might be to tell. Just then a 
voice from beneath them said, "Swear." Hamlet recog- 
nized it as the voice of the ghost. Horatio exclaimed, — 

" day and night ! but this is wondrous strange." 

Hamlet replied: — 

" And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. 
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 

A strange event occurred in Polonius's house. Ophelia 
was sitting in her room engaged in some light employ- 
ment, when Hamlet, hatless and shoeless, and with dress 
all disordered, with every appearance of a madman, 
rushed unannounced into her presence. He seized her 
hand and gazed long and piteously into her eyes. When 
he released her and left the house, she fled to her father 
and told him of what had happened. Polonius, anxious 
about Laertes, had just dispatched Peynaldo, a servant, 
to Paris to see if his son's conduct there was such as he 
would approve. As he listened to Ophelia, he exclaimed: — 

" This is the very ecstasy of love. 

I am sorry, — 
What, have you given him any hard words of late?" 



84 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

Ophelia replied: — 

" No, my good lord ; but, as you did command, 
I did repel his letters, and denied 
His access to me." 

Polonius expressed his regret at the turn affairs had 
taken, and said, — 

"Come, go we to the King: 
This must be known." 

There were others besides Ophelia who knew of Ham- 
let's sudden transformation. The king and queen were 
deeply exercised over it. They could not think that his 
father's death had so unnerved him, and they never 
suspected that he had feelings of his own regarding their 
unlawful and wicked marriage. They talked to Rosen- 
crantz and Guildenstern, two of his young friends of 
whom he was very fond, and begged them, if in their 
talks of confidence they should learn of him what his 
trouble was, to bring them word so that they might 
relieve him of it. 

Just as the young men withdrew from the room, 
Polonius entered, bearing the news that the ambassadors 
sent to Norway had returned from a successful mission, 
and, what was of more import to them at that time, that 
he thought he had discovered the cause of the strange 
actions of their son, saying: — 

"Since brevity is the soul of wit, 
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, 
I will be brief: Your noble son is mad. 
***** 

And now remains 
That we find out the cause of this effect." 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 85 

He told them of Hamlet's declarations of love to his 
daughter, and said that he, knowing the difference in 
their rank, had forbidden her receiving him. He pro- 
duced letters of love that Hamlet had written, and, to 
prove that all his statements were true, and that Hamlet 
was mad of love, he asked that Ophelia might be 
brought into the palace, and that they, concealed behind 
the arras, should watch his conduct towards her when she 
was allowed to go where he was. Lately it had become 
a habit of the prince to walk for hours up and down the 
lobby near to the private apartments of the king and 
queen, and as Polonius withdrew from his conference, 
with them, he met him in his accustomed round. 
Polonius stopped to talk with him, and to his questions 
Hamlet made such strange, incoherent answers that his 
visitor became convinced that he was really mad; and 
yet reason was mingled so well with his folly, that 
Polonius, turning aside, exclaimed, "Though this be 
madness, yet there is method in't." As he withdrew, 
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern came in. Hamlet threw 
aside his madness (it was only assumed), and was soon 
talking as freely to them as he had ever done. 

Hamlet. In the beaten way of friendship, what make 
you at Elsinore ? 

Rosencrantz. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion. 

Hamlet Were you not sent for?. Is it 

your own inclining ? Is it a free visitation ? Come, deal 
justly with me: come, come; nay, speak. 

The two evaded his questions, but he insisted upon an 
answer. Guildenstern finally answered that they had 
been sent for. 



SQ HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

Hamlet I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation 
prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the King and 
Queen moult no feather. I have of late — but wherefore 
I know not — lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of 
exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposi- 
tion, that this goodly frame, the Earth, seems to me a 
sterile promontory ; this most excellent canopy, the air, 
look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this ma- 
jestical roof fretted with golden fire, — why, it appears no 
other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation 
of vapours. What a piece of work is man! how noble 
in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving 
how express and admirable ! in action how like an angel ! 
in apprehension how like a god ! the beauty of the world ! 
the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this 
quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor 
woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say 
so. 

You are welcome; but my uncle-father and aunt- 
mother are deceived. 

Gfuildenstem. In what, my dear lord ? 

Hamlet I am but mad north-north-west; when the 
wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. 

As had been planned, Ophelia was brought to the 
palace, and her meeting with her lover was so arranged 
that Claudius and Polonius would see and hear all of the 
interview. Hamlet was soliloquizing:— 

"To be, or not to be, — that is the question: 
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer 
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, 
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 87 

And by opposing end them. To die, — to sleep, — 
No more; and by a sleep to say we end 
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks 
That flesh is heir to, — 't is a consummation 
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, — to sleep; — 
To sleep! perchance to dream! ay, there's the rub; 
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come 
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, 
Must give us pause." 

Ophelia entered during this soliloquy. In an instant 
Hamlet was changed. The heights to which he had 
soared in his profound reasoning and philosophy were 
forgotten by the counterfeit madman, and poor Ophelia 
was made to feel the most utter indifference and coldness 
in the treatment he gave her. Claudius watched Hamlet 
sharply, and was convinced that love was not the cause 
of his madness, though Polonius still maintained that 
the origin and commencement of his grief sprung from 
neglected love, and advised that he be sent to England, 
or that he be confined in some place where he might 
be safe. 

Claudius said: — 

"It shall be so: 
Madness in great ones must not unwatch'd go.' ' 

A play, arranged to take place in the palace, was to be 
performed that night. Hamlet had given instructions to 
the players, and had himself arranged the play. He took 
the death of his father, with all of its details as they had 
been given him by the ghost, for the plot. Vienna, in- 
stead of Elsinore, was made the scene of the play, and 
names different from any that were known in the royal 
family of Denmark were given to the characters. 



88 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

The play began, with the royal family and their gay 
attendants present. Polonius and Ophelia were of the 
number. Much interest was shown in each scene and 
act, but to two of the audience it became too intensely 
realistic. When Lucianus, nephew to the king in the 
play, uttered the words, — 

" Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; 
Confederate season, else no creature seeing: 
Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, 
With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, 
Thy natural magic and dire property 
On wholesome life usurp immediately," 

and poured the poison into the sleeping king's ears, 
Claudius arose in terror, and all of his party except 
Horatio and Hamlet went with him. The latter ex- 
claimed to his friend, — 

"Why, let the strucken deer go weep, 
The hart ungalled play; 
For s6me must watch while some must sleep: 
So runs the world away." 

Word was brought Hamlet that his mother wished to 
see him. He feigned not to understand the urgency of 
her request, and remained in the box till the play was 
over. Remorse, remorse most terrible, was working upon 
Claudius. He sent Polonius out to make ready to secure 
Hamlet and convey him to England, and when left 
alone, he spoke aloud: — 

"0, my offence is rank, it smells to Heaven; 
It hath the primal eldest curse upon 't, 
A brother's murder! Pray can I not: 



89 



Though inclination be as sharp as will, 

My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; 

And, like a man to double business bound, 

I stand in pause where I shall first begin, 

And both neglect. What if this cursed hand 

Were thicker than itself with brother's blood, 

Is there not rain enough in the sweet Heavens 

To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy 

But to confront the visage of offence ? 

And what's in prayer but this twofold force, 

To be forestalled ere we come to fall, 

Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; 

My fault is past. But, 0, what form of prayer 

Can serve my turn ? Forgive me my foul murder f 

That cannot be; since I am still possess'd 

Of those effects for which I did the murder, 

My crown, mine own ambition, and my Queen. 

May one be pardon'd, and retain th' offence ? 

In the corrupted ' currents of this world 

Offence's gilded hand may shove-by justice; 

And oft 't is seen the wicked prize itself 

Buys out the law: but 't is not so above; 

There is no shuffling, there the action lies 

In his true nature; and we ourselves compell'd, 

Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, 

To give in evidence. What then? what rests? 

Try what repentance can? what can it not? 

Yet what can it when one can not repent ? 

wretched state ! bosom black as death ! 

limed soul, that, struggling to be free, 

Art more engaged ! Help, angels ! Make assay ! 

Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel, 



90 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! 
All may be well." 

Hamlet, by her request, went to his mother, and asked 
her why she had sent for him. She reproached him, 
telling him that he had offended the king, his father. 
He retorted that she had offended the king, his father; to 
which she, not understanding him, replied, — 

"Come, come; you answer with an idle tongue." 

Hamlet said to her, — 

"Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge: 
You go not till I set you up a glass 
Where you may see the inmost part of you." 

From his manner his mother feared that he would 
murder her, and cried aloud for help. From behind the 
arras, Polonius, who was hidden there, also cried for 
help for the queen. Hamlet, enraged at the hidden 
presence of a third person, thrust his dagger through the 
curtain and stabbed him, so that he died almost instantly. 

Queen. 0, what a rash and bloody deed is this ! 
Hamlet A bloody deed ! almost as bad, good mother, 
As kill a king, and marry with his brother. 

He drew a comparison between the two men whom she 
had married, and stated the different feelings that had 
prompted the marriages, as well as their attendant cir- 
cumstances. 

Queen. 0, speak to me no more ! 

These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears: 
No more, sweet Hamlet! 

Hamlet saw the ghost entering the room, and ad- 
dressed it: — 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 91 

" What would your gracious figure ? " 

His mother, not seeing the ghost, said:— 
" Alas, he's mad ! 

Alas, how is 't with you, 
That you do bend your eye on vacancy, 
And with th' incorporal air do hold discourse ? 

^c :j< ^c >fc ^ 

gentle son, 
Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper 
Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ? " 

Hamlet. Do you see nothing there ? 

Queen. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. 

Hamlet. Nor did you nothing hear ? 

Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. 

Hamlet. Why, look you there ! look, how it steals away ! 
My father, in his habit as he lived ! 
Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal ! 

Seeing nothing herself, and hearing nothing, the queen 
was more convinced than ever that her son's mind was 
diseased; though his pleadings with her to do right 
savored of a very sound mind as well as very sound 
morals. Finally Hamlet bade his mother good-night, 
saying aside, — 

" I must be cruel, only to be kind." 

The queen was filled with sad forebodings of further 
trouble and sorrow with Hamlet. Claudius, noticing this, 
asked for the reason. She told him of the death of 
Polonius, and he prophesied worse things to come unless 



92 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

Hamlet were sent away to England, where he could be 
kept in a place of safety and where they would not be 
annoyed by him. 

Hamlet took the* body of Polonius out of the room 
where he had slain him, but his friends could not learn 
from him how he had disposed of it. That and his 
strange language convinced them, if they needed further 
proof than they already had, that he was insane. By 
order of the king, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were to 
go with the prince to England, which state at that time 
was debtor to Denmark for some service shown, and 
Claudius sent letters secretly, giving orders for the death 
of Hamlet. To himself he said, — 

"Doit, England; 
For like the hectic in my blood he rages, 
And thou must cure me: till I know 't is done, 
Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun." 

Fortinbras, of whom we have heard before, having 
sought permission to pass through Denmark in order to 
seize a small portion of land from Poland, had entered 
Denmark with his forces, and had sent an officer to 
Claudius to announce his arrival. In going to the palace 
the captain encountered Hamlet, who learned of his 
errand to the king. 

When Ophelia heard of her father's death, her mind 
seemed to sink under her bereavement. She raved and 
uttered speech which, while it had but half sense in it, 
made those who heard her think that there might be 
more in the words than she meant, and they put their 
own construction on them. She begged audience with 
Queen Gertrude, and talked in such a manner that her 



93 

words seemed prophetic, and yet she won the pity of both 
queen and king. When Ophelia left them, Claudius said : — 

"0 Gertude, Gertrude, 
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, 
But in battalias! First, her father slain: 
Next, your son gone; and he most violent author 
Of his own just remove: the people mudded, 
Thick and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers, 
For good Polonius' death; . . . poor Ophelia 
Divided from herself and her fair judgment, 
Without the which we 're pictures, or mere beasts: 
Last, and as much containing as all these, 
Her brother is in secret come from France." 

Laertes had indeed come from France, swearing re- 
venge upon him who had wrought the ruin of his house. 
He sought the king, who promised that the murder of 
Polonius should be avenged. 

A strange thing happened to Hamlet on his way to 
England. A pirate ship bore down upon the vessel in 
which he and his friends had sailed, and in the encounter 
Hamlet was secured as prisoner and was carried off from 
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. He found means by 
which he could communicate with Horatio, who was 
requested to bear his letters to the king. While Laertes 
was talking to the king, a letter from Hamlet was handed 
him, informing him that Hamlet had been landed in 
Denmark and would see him next day. No time could 
be better for revenge, both for Claudius and Laertes, and 
the two arranged for putting Hamlet to death as soon as 
he should return home. 

Just as they had finished all arrangements for his 
death, the queen in great anguish came in, saying, — 



94 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

" One woe doth tread upon another's heel, 
So fast they follow. — Your sister 's drown'd, Laertes." 

Yes, poor, distracted Ophelia was dead. Decked in 
gay flowers she had gone to a willow that dipped its 
branches in the brook flowing by Elsinore, and in at- 
tempting to hang upon the boughs the garlands she had 
made, she was thrown into the deep water. For a while, 
as she was carried down the stream, her clothes spread 
out and bore her up; but these, soon becoming water- 
soaked, dragged her down to her death. 

Hamlet had come home again, and he and Horatio 
drew near where two men were digging Ophelia's grave. 
They listened to their merry songs and jesting over their 
grave work, and Hamlet began asking questions. 

Hamlet. How long hast thou been a grave-maker? 
Grave-digger. Of all the days i' the year, I came to 't 
that day that our last King Hamlet o'ercame Fortinbras. 

It was the very day that young Hamlet was born; he 
that is mad, and sent into England. 

Hamlet. How long will a man lie i' the earth ere he 
rot? 

Grave-digger. Here's a skull now; this skull has lain 
in the earth three-and-twenty years. 

This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the King's jester. 

Hamlet. Let me see. — Alas, poor Yorick! — I knew 
him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent 
fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; 



HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 95 

and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! my 
gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd 
I know not how oft. — Where be your gibes now ? your 
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that 
were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to 
mock your own grinning ? 

As Hamlet was moralizing about the dead, the funeral 
cortege drew near. Seeing the king and queen at its 
head, he and Horatio retired to a spot where they would 
not be noticed, yet where they could witness all the ob- 
sequies. Seeing the king and queen and Laertes, they 
wondered who the dead one was. Hearing Laertes say 
to the priest, "A ministering angel shall my sister be," 
Hamlet exclaimed, — 

"What, the fair Ophelia!" 

Queen Gertrude strewed the grave with flowers, saying 
while she did so, — 

"I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife." 

The coffin was lowered into the grave, and would soon 
have been hidden from sight, when Laertes, overcome by 
grief, shouted, — 

"Hold off the earth awhile, 
Till I have caught her once more in mine arms." 

He leaped into the grave, with the words, — 

" Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead." 

Hamlet followed him, and on Ophelia's coffin the foes 
grappled. By order of the king they were parted and 
induced to come out of the grave. 

Said Hamlet to his mother, — 



96 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

"I loved Ophelia: forty thousand brothers 
Could not, with all their quantity of love, 
Make up my sum." 

The funeral was over. Hamlet's friends thought him 
mad, and Claudius charged Horatio to keep watch over 
him. To Laertes he said that "they would look for their 
opportunity and soon put an end to him. Hamlet and 
Horatio were walking in a hall in the great castle, when 
Hamlet began to tell his friend of what had happened to 
him recently: — 

" Let us know, 
Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well 
When our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us 
There 's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them how we will." 

He narrated the particulars of the sea-fight on his 
voyage to England, and told how certain papers, disclos- 
ing designs upon his life by Claudius, had fallen into his 
hands, and of the discovery he made, that his pretended 
friends, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, were willing agents 
of the king in his designs against his life. Their conver- 
sation was interrupted by the entrance of Osric, a 
messenger from the king, who sent to ask if Hamlet 
would enter into a contest with Laertes to show which 
one possessed the greater skill and prowess. Heavy 
wagers had been made, and the king was anxious that 
Hamlet should accept. Osric bore word back to the king 
that Hamlet would meet his opponent; and yet Hamlet 
had strange misgivings of evil to himself, and Horatio 
begged him to withdraw from his engagement, but he 
would not be persuaded. The contest began, and for 



97 

a while the contestants parried each other's thrusts with 
equal skill. Then Hamlet seemed to have the advantage. 
The king saw it, and cried, — 

" Our son shall win." 

The queen took up a cup standing near by, and said, — 

"The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet." 

Claudius made an attempt to stop her, but too late. 
The cup contained the poison which he and Laertes had 
prepared for Hamlet. Hamlet received a wound from 
Laertes, whose sword had been dipped in a deadly 
poison. In the scuffle, their swords were exchanged, and 
Laertes in turn was wounded by Hamlet. The poison 
which the queen drank soon took effect, and she fell 
from her chair. Claudius said, — 

" She swoons to see them bleed." 

With her dying breath the queen cried, — 

"No, no, the drink, the drink, — my dear Hamlet, — 
The drink, the drink! — I 'm poison'd." 

Laertes's wound was mortal, and he fell, saying to 
Hamlet: — 

"Hamlet, thou art slain; 
No medicine in the world can do thee good; 
In thee there is not half an hour of life : 
The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, 
Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice 
Hath turn'd itself on me : lo, here I lie, 
Never to rise again. Thy mother 's poison'd ! 
I can no more. The King, the King 's to blame." 

In a rage Hamlet turned and thrust the poisoned sword 



98 HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK. 

into the king's heart. He also poured into his mouth 
the dregs of the cup of poison, which soon did its work, 
and Claudius lay dead beside his queen. Laertes died 
with words of forgiveness to Hamlet on his lips. Sounds 
of martial music were heard drawing near, and word 
was carried to the dying Hamlet that it was young For- 
tinbras returning in victory from Poland. 
Dying, Hamlet said, — 

" I do prophesy th' election lights 
On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; 
So tell him." 

High on a stage erected for the purpose were the dead 
bodies placed, so that all could see them, and Horatio, the 
constant friend of Hamlet, delivered the oration. He 
told of "carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts; of accidental 
judgments, casual slaughters; of deaths put on by cun- 
ning and forced cause; and, in this upshot, purposes 
mistook fall'n on th' inventors' heads." 

By order of Fortinbras, the new king, the body of 
Hamlet was borne by four soldiers to the stage, the dead 
march being played meanwhile. 

Fortinbras. For he was likely, had he been put on, 
T' have proved most royally: and, for his passage, 
The soldiers' music and the rites of war 
Speak loudly for him. — 
Take up the bodies. — Such a sight as this 
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.— 
Go, bid the soldiers shoot. 




"Out, damned spot! out, I say!" 



MACBETH. 



Principal Characters. 



Duncan, King of Scotland. 

Malcolm, 

> the /Sons of Duncan. 
Donalbam, 



dn, J 

"} 



Macbeth, 

> Generals in the King s army. 
Banquo, 



Noblemen of Scotland. 



Macduff, 
Lennox, 
Boss, 
Menteith, 
Angus, 
Caithness, 
Fleance, Son of Banquo. 

Siward, Earl of Northumberland, and General of the English King's 
forces. 

Young Siward, Son of the Earl of Northumberland. 

Seyton, an Officer of Macbeth's. 

Macduff's Son. 

An English and a Scotch doctor. 

A soldier, a porter, and an old man. 

Lady Macbeth. 

Lady Macduff. 

Hecate and three witches. 

The Ghost of Banquo and other apparitions. 

Scene, partly in England, though mostly in Scotland, and chiefly in 
Macbeth's Castle. 



100 



MACBETH. 

By William Shakespeare. 



' Duncan, than whom no better or more gracious sov- 
ereign ever reigned, was seated on the throne of Scotland. 
A part of his kingdom had revolted, and Macbeth, one 
of Scotland's bravest generals, had succeeded in reducing 
the rebels to submission. The army had returned and 
gone into camp at Forres. Duncan and his two sons, Mal- 
colm and Donalbain, attended by their usual guard, drew 
near the camp, and the brave deeds of Macbeth and Ban- 
quo, another general, were told to the king. Scarcely was 
the soldier through with his stirring tale, when Ross, one 
of Scotland's noblemen, entered to tell of the invasion of 
their country by the army of Norway, assisted by the 
Thane of Cawdor, and that the victory had been on the 
side of Duncan's proud country. The king was lavish 
and. sincere in his praise of Macbeth, not knowing, or 
even dreaming, that it was by his hand that he himself 
was to be slain. 

The Scot, though brave and thoughtful to a high 
degree, had nevertheless a vein of superstition in his 
character, and was not above consulting even witches 
when he wished to know of the future and of his own 
fate. Three of these weird creatures were out on the 
heather one day, practicing their strange deeds and utter- 
ing incantations, when they were interrupted by Macbeth 
and Banquo, the latter of whom exclaimed, as he looked 
at them: — 

101 



102 MACBETH. 

"What are these 
So wither'd, and so wild in their attire, 
That look not like th' inhabitants o' the Earth, 
And yet are on 't ? — Live you ? or are you aught 
That man may question ? You seem to understand me, 
By each at once her choppy finger laying 
Upon her skinny lips : you should be women, 
And yet your beards forbid me to interpret 
That you are so." 

The first witch then addressed Macbeth as Thane of 
Glamis; the second followed by giving to him the title 
of the Thane of Cawdor, whom he had so recently de- 
feated, and whose great name the king himself had said, 
in the absence of Macbeth and without his knowledge, 
should be conferred upon Macbeth; and the third witch 
surprised him most by telling him that, in the future, he 
should wear the honors of the king. Banquo congratu- 
lated him, and then asked of his own fortune, assuring 
the witches that he neither begged nor feared their 
favors or their hate. The first witch answered him that 
he should be lesser than Macbeth, and greater; the sec- 
ond one predicted that he should be not so happy, yet 
much happier; and the third one declared that, though a 
king he himself could never be, he should be the father 
of kings. Macbeth asked more, but received no answer. 
The witches vanished as they came. 

The title of Thane of Cawdor was speedily conferred 
upon Macbeth, but he saw no way by which the prophecy 
• of the third witch might be fulfilled. His wife, laying 
aside all her womanly instincts, and led by a boundless, 
unholy ambition, helped him to secure the throne. In 
her castle at Inverness, she sat reading a letter just 



MACBETH. 103 

received from her husband. He told her of the inter- 
view with the witches and of the great title with which 
the king had honored him, concluding his letter with 
these words: — 

"These Weird Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me to the 
coming on of time, with 'Hail, king that shalt be!' 
This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest 
partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues 
of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is prom- 
ised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." 

She exclaimed: — 

"Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be 
What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness 
To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great; 
Art not without ambition, but without 
The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, 
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, 
And yet wouldst wrongly win. 

Hie thee hither, 
That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, 
And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
All that impedes thee from the golden round 
Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
To have thee crown'd withal." 

Thoughts of how to secure the crown filled her brain, 
and doubtless many plans suggested themselves. In the 
midst of her meditations a messenger was announced, 
who brought the news that Duncan, the king, would 
lodge in her castle that night. She was incredulous, 



104 MACBETH. 

knowing that he would not come when Macbeth was 
absent. The welcome news was then given that Macbeth 
would also be there. Left to herself, her joy was un- 
bounded. No better opportunity could ever be given 
her husband to secure the throne by putting Duncan out 
of the way than would be offered when he had him in 
his own castle, and she immediately arranged her plans 
to secure that end. If there was a struggle in her mind, 
it lasted but a moment. She invoked the aid of the 
spirits that wait on evil-doers, to unsex her, and to fill her 
with so cruel a spirit that nothing would keep her from 
the deed; that no remorse or workings of conscience 
should trouble her till after Duncan was disposed of. 
While she was full of her murderous resolves, her hus- 
band entered her room unannounced, and she told him 
of the transport of happiness which his letter had given 
her, and that in the present she saw his glorious future. 
He seemed to have no thought of himself, but only of the 
visit of his king, who would honor him with his presence 
overnight. She immediately told him of what she 
had arranged to do and that he must help carry it out. 

The herald of the king was heard, and soon in the 
stately home of the Macbeths Duncan and the young prin- 
ces, his sons, with Banquo and many lords in attendance, 
were being entertained in the most lordly manner. Lady 
Macbeth, hiding under smiles of welcome all her designs 
of evil, was most gracious to the king, placing her castle 
and all that it contained at his disposal while he chose to 
remain their guest; and Duncan believed every word 
she said. 

Hushed in the quiet of the night, the guests of 
Macbeth were sleeping, with no knowledge of im- 



MACBETH. 105 

pending danger. Duncan was to be murdered in his 
bed, — so Lady Macbeth had decreed, — and her husband, 
an unwilling though weak tool of her imperious, over- 
mastering will, was to do the deed, every detail of which 
she had arranged. Macbeth wavered, and said, doubt- 
ingly,— 

"If we should fail,"— 

Lady Macbeth replied, with decision, — 

"We fail. 
But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 
And we '11 not fail." 

The two guards before the king's chamber were stupe- 
fied with wine which their hostess herself had given 
them. With their daggers the murder was to be com- 
mitted, and the instruments of death were to be put back 
into their hands, and blood sprinkled over them, so that 
the guilt of the crime might be fixed upon them. This 
latter part of the work was to be done by the lady herself. 
All things were ready. Macbeth hesitated, but at last he 
entered the king's chamber. Lady Macbeth awaited him 
outside, saying, — 

" Had he not resembled 
My father as he slept, I had done 't." 

She trembled with anxiety for the success of Macbeth's 
attempt at the murder, until he came back to where she 
was waiting and reported that he had done the deed. 
"Didst thou not hear a noise?" he asked her. Con- 
science was at work, and fear also. Macbeth looked at 
his hands, and exclaimed, " This is a sorry sight." Every 
sound disturbed him, and he told his wife that he heard 
voices while he was doing his bloody work. She tried to 



106 MACBETH. 

divert him, and bade him wash his hands and get ready 
for his rest. 

The morning light was glowing in the east, and two of 
the king's attendants, Macduff and Lennox, knowing that 
the king's business would require an early departure 
from the hospitable home of Macbeth, were astir and 
knocking at the gate. The gate having been opened by 
the porter, Macduff thus addressed him: — 

"Is thy master stirring? — 
Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes." 

Macbeth was not reassured in his hopes of not being 
detected in his crime by what Lennox said to him, when 
they had exchanged the greetings of the morning. 

Lennox. The night has been unruly: where we lay, 
Our chimneys were blown down; and, as they say, 
Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death: 
And, prophesying, with accents terrible, 
Of dire combustion and confused events 
New hatch'd to th' woeful time, the obscene bird 
Clamour'd the livelong night: some say the Earth 
Was feverous and did shake. 

Macbeth. 'T was a rough night. 

Lennox. My young remembrance cannot parallel 
A fellow to it. 

Macduff went to the king's chamber to waken him, 
and came running back, crying in horror that the king 
was murdered. The inmates of the castle were soon 
awake, and filling the air with their cries and lamenta- 
tions. Macbeth and his lady, feigning innocence, were 
more excited than any of their guests or servants. Mal- 
colm and Donalbain, fearing that the guilt of the murder 



MACBETH. 107 

would be fixed on them, fled from the house, and sought 
refuge in foreign countries. Macbeth, attempting to avoid 
suspicion, threw the responsibility of the guilt upon the 
guards of the king's chamber, and took their speedy 
execution into his own hands. He slew them with the 
daggers which were stained with their sovereign's blood. 
The body of the king was borne away to Colmekill, and 
buried with those of his predecessors.' The flight of 
Malcolm and Donalbain made some suspicious that they 
might have been accessory to the murder, and Macbeth 
was nominated king. 

Lady Macbeth was now queen of Scotland, and she 
left her castle for the king's palace in the capital. Neither 
she nor her royal husband felt sure of Banquo's loy- 
alty. The king remembered the witches' prophecies. 
'T was true, he was king; but he was childless. It was 
told Banquo that his issue should sit upon the throne, 
and Macbeth, knowing how he had ascended the throne, 
feared Banquo through his young son Fleance. A feast 
was to be held in the palace, to which Banquo was 
invited, and his presence was urged and insisted upon. 
He promised attendance, though he told Macbeth and his 
wife that business required himself and Fleance to be 
absent from the city till the time appointed. The king 
immediately determined that both Banquo and Fleance 
should be murdered, and he gave the cruel deed into the 
hands of two men who had received some slight from 
* Banquo. These were afterward joined by a third. 
Banquo and his son were riding along toward the 
palace that evening, not thinking that danger was 
near them, when they were sprung upon by the three hired 
murderers, who found a match in strength in Banquo, 



108 MACBETH. 

who resisted them with all his might. The murderers 
found that they must center their designs upon Banquo, 
and in the contest Fleance escaped. His father was 
foully murdered and thrown aside into the ditch near by. 
The honors that had come to Lady Macbeth could not 
make of her a happy woman. She lived in hourly 
apprehension that her foul deeds might be exposed and 
her life be endangered. Thus to herself she one day 
voiced her feelings : — 

" Nought 's had, all 's spent, 
Where our desire is got without content: 
'T is safer to be that which we destroy, 
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy." 

Neither was the king happy. His life was one con- 
stant dread that something might be seen or done which 
would show him as he was, not as he seemed to be. 

The guests had assembled at the king's banquet, when 
he was called to the door to see one who brought him 
important news. It was that Banquo was dead and his 
son had escaped. He had no time to parley with his 
minion, as the queen was waiting for him to be seated at 
the table so that the feast might begin. 

She urged him to freely express to the guests his 
welcome, and give cheer to the feast. He, hiding his 
real feelings, replied, — 

" Sweet remembrancer ! — 
Now, good digestion wait on appetite, 
And health on both ! " 

" Here is a place reserved, sir," said Lennox. 
Macbeth would not sit down, but stood looking with 
affright and horror at the chair offered him. The eyes 



MACBETH. 109 

of the guests were all upon him. His gaze was unmoved, 
and he addressed some one who, he fancied, was sitting 
in the chair: — 

"Thou canst not say I did it: never shake 
Thy gory locks at me." 

Unseen by any other eyes than his, the ghost of 
Banquo was occupying the chair and Macbeth dared not 
sit down. 

His wife came to his aid: — 

" Sit, worthy friends : my lord is often thus, 
And hath been from his youth: pray you, keep seat, 
The fit is momentary; upon a thought 
He will again be well : if much you note him, 
You shall offend him, and extend his passion: 
Feed, and regard him not. — Are you a man ? 

Macbeth returned, — 

"Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that 
Which might appal the Devil." 

She whispered something to him, and he answered her 
in words which showed his terror. Just then the image 
of the dead Banquo vanished, and with the queen's words 
of chiding for his unmanliness and words of encourage- 
ment how to proceed, he turned to his friends, explain- 
ing:— 

"Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends; 
I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing 
To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; 
Then I'll sit down. — Give me some wine, fill full. — 
I drink to th' general joy o' the whole table, 
And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss; 



110 MACBETH. 

Would he were here ! to all, and him, we thirst, 
And all to all." 

Just then the ghost of Banquo again arose and seated 
itself in Macbeth 's chair. He cried: — 

"Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! 
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; 
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
Which thou dost glare with ! 

5fC >K %. 5JS ^ 

What man dare, I dare: 

Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, 
The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; 
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
Shall never tremble : or be alive again, 
And dare me to the desert with thy sword; 
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me 
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow ! 
Unreal mockery, hence ! " 

The ghost disappeared, and Macbeth quieted down, 
saying: — 

"Why, so: being gone, 
I am a man again. — Pray you, sit still." 

Knowing well that a terrible guilt was haunting him, 
but knowing not of Banquo's murder, again Lady Mac- 
beth interposed, — 

" You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, 
With most admired disorder. 

One of the guests having inquired as to the nature of 
the sights which disturbed Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, in 
order to avoid disclosure, immediately dismissed the com- 
pany, as follows: — 



MACBETH. Ill 

"I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; 
Question enrages him. At once, good night: 
Stand not upon the order of your going, 
But go at once." 

Left alone, Macbeth and the queen gave utterance to 
thoughts of which they were in the secret, the former 
saying, before they separated: — 

" I will to-morrow- 
Ay, and betimes I will — to th' Weird Sisters: 
More shall they speak; for now I 'm bent to know 
By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good 
All causes shall give way: I am in blood 
SterJp'cl in so far, that, should I wade no more, 
Returning were as tedious as go o'er: 
Strange things I have in head, that will to hand ; 
Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd." 

There were many sturdy, far-seeing lords of Scotland 
who did not believe that Duncan had been killed by 
Malcolm and Donalbain, nor that Fleance had murdered 
his father; and they were in secret watching every cir- 
cumstance, to fix the guilt upon the real murderers. 
Macduff was absent from the king's banquet, and had 
been dishonored in consequence by the king, and had 
gone to England to seek aid to rid his country of the 
tyrant. The king had heard this, and was making prepa- 
rations for a war, should it come. 

In a densely dark cave the witches had again met, and 
were standing over a boiling cauldron, into which they 
had cast substances too many and too sickening to men- 
tion. They were just through with their incantations 
and song, when Macbeth entered the cave and demanded 



112 MACBETH. 

of them what they were doing. With one voice they 
answered that it was a deed without a name. 
Said he: — 

"I conjure you, by that which you profess, — 
Howe'er you come to know it, — answer me: 
Though you untie the winds, and let them fight 
Against the churches; though the yesty waves 
Confound and swallow navigation up; 
Though bladed corn be lodged, and trees blown down; 
Though castles topple on their warders' heads; 
Though palaces and pyramids do slope 
Their heads to their foundations; though the treasure 
Of Nature's germens tumble all together, 
Even till destruction sicken, — answer me 
To what I ask you." 

One of the witches said, — 

" Say, if thou 'dst rather hear it from our mouths, 
Or from our masters ? " 

Macbeth chose the latter, and an armed head appeared. 
The apparition spoke: — 

"Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! beware Macduff ; 
Beware the Thane of Fife. — Dismiss me: enough." 

The head disappeared. Macbeth was not satisfied; the 
same spirit would not reappear, but another one, more 
powerful, he was assured, would answer him. The appa- 
rition of a bloody child appeared, and said: — 

"Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!— 

— Be bloody, bold, and resolute; laugh to scorn 
The power of man, for none of woman born 
Shall harm Macbeth." 



MACBETH. 113 

Reassured, Macbeth said: — 

" Then live, Macduff: what need I fear of thee ? 
But yet I '11 make assurance double-sure, 
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live." 

An apparition of a child crowned, with a tree in his 
hand, appeared, and Macbeth cried, — 

"What is this, 
That rises like the issue of a king, 
And wears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty ? " 

The figure said, — 

"Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care 
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are: 
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him." 

Macbeth was delighted, for it seemed impossible that 
trees could be uprooted and walk, yet there was one thing 
more he must know. Should Banquo's issue ever reign 
in the kingdom? The child spirit had disappeared, but 
a more wonderful sight met his gaze: eight kings ap- 
peared and passed over in order, the last with a glass in 
his hand, Banquo's ghost following. He was appalled at 
the sight, and suddenly the witches vanished, leaving 
him to interpret what he had seen as he would. Lennox 
interrupted his reverie by breaking to him the news that 
Macduff had fled to England. In his surprise and anger 
he vowed revenge upon Macduff by making his innocent 
wife and children suffer: — 



114 MACBETH. 

"The castle of Macduff I will surprise; 
Seize upon Fife; give to trie edge o' the sword 
His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls 
That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; 
This deed I '11 do before this purpose cool," 

He arranged his plans for the murder of the family of 
Macduff and sent his agents to perform the deed soon 
after he parted with Lennox. Ross, a nobleman, a 
friend and kinsman of Macduff, carried to the latter's 
wife the news of his flight, and attempted to console her. 
He did not succeed in this, and left the castle hurriedly. 
Immediately afterward a messenger warned the lady that 
danger was near and that she had better seek safety for 
herself and her little ones instantly. No time was given 
her, for, following upon the footsteps of the messenger, 
came Macbeth's hired murderers. Her son was killed 
almost instantly, and she fled from the room shrieking 
"Murder!" and closely followed by the murderers. 

Over in England, in the palace of Edward the good 
king, Malcolm, the young son of the murdered king 
Duncan, of Scotland, and Macduff, who had but lately 
arrived, were talking of their country's woes. Malcolm, 
to test Macduff's integrity and loyalty to the interests 
of Scotland, portrayed himself in such black colors and 
made himself out to be so bad a man (with promise of 
being much worse should he ever be established on the 
throne) that the honest old general cried out at the pros- 
pect before him, — 

"0 Scotland, Scotland!" 
Malcolm. If such a one be fit to govern, speak: 
I am as I have spoken. 



MACBETH. 115 

Macduff. Fit to govern I 

No, not to live. — 

1* *|* *|* *S* *i* 

Thy royal father 
Was a most sainted king: the queen that bore thee, 
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, 
Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! 
These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself 
Have banish'd me from Scotland. — my breast, 
Thy hope ends here! 

Then Malcolm cleared away the falsely drawn picture, 
and put himself under Macduff's direction in all matters 
pertaining to his country. 

Malcolm. What I am truly, 

Is thine, and my poor country's, to command; 
Whither, indeed, before thy here-approach, 
Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men, 
Already at a point, was setting forth: 
Now we'll together; and the chance of goodness 
Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? 

Macduff. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 
'T is hard to reconcile. 

They were here interrupted by a doctor, of whom 
Malcolm asked whether the king, Edward, were going to 
appear in public that day, and learned that he was, as 
many wretched souls had gathered to have their malady, 
known as king's evil, cured by the touch of his kingly 
hand. 

Ross, when he closed his interview with Lady Mac- 
duff, left her and went immediately to England, where he 
sought Macduff. The doctor and Malcolm had just 



116 MACBETJI. 

finished their description of the wondrous cures wrought 
by the king on people afflicted with ulcerous sores, after all 
hopes from medicine and surgery had failed, when Koss 
came upon them. Macduff welcomed him, and before he 
asked any questions about his family inquired after the 
welfare of Scotland. The answer was not reassuring: — 

"Alas, poor country, 
Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot 
Be call'd our mother, but our grave* where nothing, 
But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; 
Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air, 
Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems 
A modern ecstasy: the dead man's knell 
Is there scarce ask'd for who; and good men's lives 
Expire before the flowers in their caps, 
Dying or e'er they sicken." 

Macduff then asked about Lady Macduff and his 
children, and was told by Ross that when he left them 
they were well and at peace, adding that now was the 
time for him and his followers to strike the blow which 
would free Scotland, as the Scots were ready for an up- 
rising. He was assured that the aid of England had 
been secured and an invasion would soon be made. 
Ross then told him that he had other news too dreadful 
to be heard. 

Macduff. If it be mine, 

Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. 
***** 

Ross. Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes 
Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner, 
Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer, 
To add the death of you. 



MACBETH. 117 

Macduff was not prepared for this, and in his grief 
cried: — ■ 

"My children too? 

And I must be from thence! — 
My wife kill'd too? 

All my pretty ones ? 
Did you say all?— hell-kite !— All ? 
What, all my pretty chickens and their dam 
At one fell swoop ? " 

He was urged to seek revenge, — to dispute his wrongs 
like a man, — and answered that he would do so, but that 
he must also feel his sorrows and bereavements like a 
man; and then he blamed himself as the cause of the 
death of his wife and children, — that Macbeth had touched 
him through them. 

Macduff. 0, I could play the woman with mine eyes, 
And braggart with my tongue! — But, gentle Heaven, 
Cut short all intermission; front to front 
Bring Thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; 
Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, 
Heaven forgive him too ! 

Malcolm. This tune goes manly. 

Come, go we to the King; our power is ready; 
Our lack is nothing but our leave: Macbeth 
Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above 
Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may: 
The night is long that never finds the day. 

Strange things were happening in the palace of the 
King of Scotland. The queen's strange actions were being 



118 MACBETH. 

watched, and great fears in her behalf were entertained 
by her husband and attendants. By day she maintained 
her composure and kept her awful secret; but at night, 
when she was wholly under the power of sleep, she walked 
and talked and acted so peculiar^ that it told upon her 
waking hours; and Lady Macbeth, fight against it as hard 
as she would, was breaking down under the strain upon 
her. A doctor had been consulted, but there was some- 
thing in her case which he did not understand — something 
beyond the knowledge of his books. He had heard 
strange reports, and at last put himself on the watch of 
her actions during sleep. He asked one of her waiting 
women to tell him how the queen acted during her spells 
of somnambulism, and she said, — 

"Since his Majesty went into the field, I have seen her 
rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock 
her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, 
afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this 
while in a most fast sleep." 

The doctor then asked, — 

"Besides her walking and other actual performances, 
what, at any time, have you heard her say?" 

The answer was: — 

"That, sir, which I willjaot report after her. 

Neither to you nor any one; having no witness to confirm 
my speech. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very 
guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand 
close." 

The doctor saw her enter with a lighted taper in her 



MACBETH. 119 

hand, and was informed that she had a light by her 
continually. He saw also that while her eyes were wide 
open, she was unconscious of all that was going on around 
her. She rubbed her hands vigorously, as though she 
were washing them, exclaiming: — 

"Yet here's a spot. 

"Out, damn&d spot! out, I say! — One, two; why, then 
'tis time to do't. — Hell is murky! — Fie, my lord, fie! a 
soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, 
when none can call our power to account? Yet who 
would have thought the old man to have had so much 
blood in him? 

"The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? — 
What, will these hands ne'er be clean ? — No more o' that, 
my lord, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting. 

"Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of 
Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. , 0! O! 0! 



"Wash your hands, put on your nightgown; look not 
so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo 's buried; he cannot 
come out on's grave. 

"To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate: come, 
come, come, come, give me your hand: what's done can- 
not be undone: to bed, to bed, to bed." 

She disappeared hurriedly, as if she would escape some 
one who she feared would see her. She had not heard 



120 MACBETH. 

the whispered exclamations with which her words were 
received as she uttered them. 
Said the doctor: — 

"Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds 
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds 
To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets: 
More needs she the divine than the physician. — 
God, God forgive us all! — Look after her; 
Remove from her the means of all annoyance, 
And still keep eyes upon her. So, good night: 
My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight: 
I think, but dare not speak." 

The army raised by the Earl of Northumberland, and 
led by him and Malcolm and Macduff, was nearing Scot- 
land, revenge being their watchword. Angus, one of 
Macbeth's noblemen, with many of his countrymen, was 
waiting to receive them. Word had been brought him 
that they would meet the enemy near Great Birnam 
wood, as they were coming that way. The question was 
asked if Donalbain was coming home with Malcolm, and 
it was said that his name was not in the file of the 
soldiery, and that he must still be in Ireland, whither he 
had fled. Macbeth was strongly intrenched in Great 
Dunsinane, and it was reported that he had gone mad 
and could not contain himself in his fury. His own 
army now suspected him of murder. 

Angus said, — 

" Now does he feel 
His secret murders sticking on his hands; 
Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; 
Those he commands move only in command, 



MACBETH. 121 

Nothing in love : now does he feel his title 
Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe 
Upon a dwarfish thief." 

Another nobleman answered, with a hidden meaning 
in his words, — 

"Well, march we on, 
To give obedience where 't is truly owed." 

Macbeth was in his castle at Dunsinane awaiting devel- 
opments. The doctor and the king's usual attendants 
were with him. Something had excited him, and he 
exclaimed : — 

"Bring me no more reports; let them fly all: 
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, 
I cannot taint with fear. What 's the boy Malcolm? 
Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know 
All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus, 
'Fear not, Macbeth; no man that 's born of woman 
Shall e'er have power upon thee.' 

The mind I sway by and the heart I bear 
Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear." 

A servant with a message approached him. 

Servant. There is ten thousand — • 
Macbeth. Geese, villain? 

Servant. Soldiers, sir. 

Sf» 5|C 3|C - 3|S , «|C 

The English force, so please you. 

Macbeth abusively ordered him from the room, and 
exclaimed: — ' 

"Seyton! — I'm sick at heart. 



122 MACBETH. 

I have lived long enough: my way of life 

Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf; 

And that which should accompany old age, 

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, 

I must not look to have; but, in their stead, 

Curses not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath, 

Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not.— 

Seyton!" 

Seyton, an officer in attendance, entered, and confirmed 
the report. Macbeth turned to the doctor and asked, — 

"How does your patient, doctor?" 

Doctor, Not so sick, my lord, 

As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, 
That keep her from her rest. 

Macbeth. Cure her of that: 

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased; 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow; 
Raze out the written troubles of the brain; 
And with some sweet-oblivious antidote 
Cleanse the stuff 'd bosom of that perilous grief 
Which weighs upon the heart ? 

Doctor. Therein the patient 

Must minister to himself. 

Macbeth. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. — 
Come, put mine armour on; give me my staff. — 
Seyton, send out. — Doctor, the thanes fly from me.— 
Come, sir, dispatch. — If thou couldst, doctor, cast 
The water of my land, find her disease, 
And purge it to a sound and pristine health, 
I would applaud thee to the very echo, 
That should applaud again. 



MACBETH. 123 

Doctor, Ay, my good lord; your royal preparation 
Makes us hear something. 

Macbeth. Bring it after me.— 

I will not be afraid of death and bane, 
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane. 

The army from England was drawing near Dunsinane, 
and came in view of a wood. 

Siward. What wood is this before us ? 

Menteith. The wood of Birnam. 

Malcolm. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, 
And bear 't before him: thereby shall we shadow 
The numbers of our host, and make discovery 
Err in report of us. 

Macbeth, with others, entered the castle with drums 
and colors. 

Macbeth. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; 
The cry is still, "They come." Our castle's strength 
Will laugh a siege to scorn: here let them lie 
Till famine and the ague eat them up. 

What is that noise ? 
Seyton. It is the cry of women, my good lord. 

The Queen, my lord, is dead. 

Macbeth. She should have died hereafter; 
There would have been a time for such a word. 
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
To the last syllable of recorded time; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 



124 MACBETH. 

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! 
Life 's but a walking shadow; a poor player, 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing. — 

A messenger interrupted him, and reported, — 

"As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 
I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
The wood began to move." 

Macbeth mused: — 

" ' Fear not, till Birnam wood 
Do come to Dunsinane'; and now a wood 
Comes toward Dunsinane. — Arm, arm, and out! 
If this which he avouches does appear, 
There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. 
I 'gin to be a- weary of the Sun, 

And wish th' estate o' the world were now undone. — 
Ring the alarum-bell ! — Blow, wind ! come, wrack ! 
At least we'll die with harness on our back." 

On the plain near Dunsinane Macbeth and Macduff 
soon met and beg^n the fight which would last till one or 
the other was slain. 

Macbeth. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; 
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
To one of woman born. 

Macduff. Despair thy charm; 

And let the angel whom thou still hast served 
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb 
Untimely ripp'd. 



MACBETH. 125 

Then yield thee, coward, 
And live to be the show and gaze o' the time. 
* * # # * * 

Macbeth. I will not yield, 

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, 
And to be baited with the rabble's curse. 
Though Birnam wood be come to Dunsinane, 
And thou opposed, being of no woman born, 
Yet I will try the last: before my body 
I throw my warlike shield : lay on, Macduff ; 
And damn'd be he that first cries, " Hold, enough !" 

Malcolm, in another part of the field, announced to 
Siward, — 

" Macduff is missing, and your noble son." 

Ross added, — 

"Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt: 
He only lived but till he was a man; 
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd 
In the unshrinking station where he fought, 
But like a man he died." 

Macduff returned to his friends with Macbeth's head 
on a pole, and addressed Malcolm thus: — 

"Hail, King! for so thou art: behold, where stands 
Th' usurper's cursed head: the time is free. 
I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl, 
That speak my salutation in their minds; 
Whose voices I desire aloud with mine: 
Hail, King of Scotland!" 

Then all cried, — 

"Hail, King of Scotland!" 



126 MACBETH. 

Malcolm replied: — 

"We shall not spend a large expense of time 
Before we reckon with your several loves, 
And make us even with you. My thanes and kinsmen, 
Henceforth be earls, the first that ever Scotland 
In such an honour named. What 's more to do, 
Which would be planted newly with the time, — 
As calling home our exiled friends abroad, 
That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; 
Producing forth the cruel ministers 
Of this dead butcher, and his fiend-like Queen, 
Who, as 't is thought, by self and violent hands 
Took off her life; — this, and what needful else 
That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace, 
We will perform in measure, time, and place: 
So, thanks to all at once and to each one, 
Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone." 




Dickens and His Pets. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 
1812-1870. 



Charles Dickens, "the world's heir of fame," was 
born at Landport, a suburb of Portsmouth, England, on 
the 7th day of February, 1812, and died at Gad's Hill, 
near the old cathedral, in the city of Rochester, in Kent 
County, on June 9, 1870. He was buried in Westminster 
Abbey, on Tuesday, June 14, 1870. 

The childhood of Dickens was an unhappy one, and 
he had but few pleasant memories connected with it. 
Perhaps it was this that made him feel so deeply and 
tenderly, and describe so pathetically, the wrongs and 
woes of oppressed childhood. He seldom alluded to his 
earlier years. He seems to have been misunderstood by 
his family and friends, as children of his natural endow- 
ments generally are, and some friend described him one 
time as a "very queer small boy." 

It was while living at Chatham that for the first time 
he saw Gad's Hill, which in after life became his home, 
the home which he so dearly loved and which almost 
formed a part of himself and of his family. When he 
was a boy, he would stand and gaze at and admire the 
place with so much enthusiasm that his father would tell 
him that if he would work hard and grow to be a good 
man, perhaps some time he might come to live in that 
very house. This was an inspiration to him, though it 
appeared impossible of attainment. His love for it was 
9 129 



130 CHAKLES DICKENS. 

a remarkable love, but Dickens was preeminently a 
domestic, home-loving man. He never had a joy or a 
sorrow, when a boy, but that he took it home to' have 
his friends share it with him. Everything connected 
with home, no matter how small or trivial, was to him 
something worthy of attentive consideration. He was 
tender and affectionate as a boy, and when the world 
brought its homage to him he was still tender and affec- 
tionate. His children loved and reverenced him. His 
daughter, Miss Mamie Dickens, has recently paid a most 
beautiful tribute to her father: "My love for my father 
has never been touched or approached by any other love. 
I hold him in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all 
other men, as one apart from all other beings." 

Dickens was married in 1837, or 1838. In 1858 he 
and his wife had an unhappy disagreement, which led 
to their separation by mutual consent. His children 
were thus deprived of their mother's presence, but were 
tenderly cared for, however, by a sister of Mrs. Dickens, 
who assumed this care by Mrs. Dickens's consent and 
advice, and between the sisters there was always esteem 
and confidence. The trouble was the constant exhibition 
of a peculiarity of temper on the part of Mrs. Dickens, 
which she could not overcome, and which she, as well as 
her friends, came to regard as a mental unbalancing. By 
consent of Mr. Dickens, when two separate establishments 
had to be maintained, the oldest son, Charles, went to 
live with his mother, and became her protector. Mr. 
Dickens gave her a handsome allowance, and she lived 
in as much elegance as did the family at Gad's Hill. 

As a writer, Dickens was the greatest novelist of his day, 
and indeed one of the greatest of all time. Every tale he 



CHARLES ' DICKENS. 131 

wrote had a deliberate purpose in it. Follies and crimes 
were exposed with a master hand; and the aim of his 
writings was to make people more benevolent, more 
practical in methods of doing good, and to have the 
effect of exciting sympathy for those who were wronged 
and were suffering, no matter to what rank or class they 
belonged. 

Dickens was a man of method, as well as a man of 
preeminent genius. Every document in his possession, 
from his earliest effort to the last, was duly dated, dock- 
eted, and deposited where he could get it without any 
trouble. From the appearance of the famous Pickwick 
Papers, he continued, up to the very day of his death, to 
put forth book after book, each one of which was re- 
ceived with a warm welcome, and each one of which 
added to his constantly increasing fame. 

Dickens was an excellent reader, and he might have 
made a first-rate actor. He gave public readings of his 
own works, both in Europe and America, which were 
received with great applause. He died in the full ma- 
turity of his powers. He had drawn too freely on his 
vital force, and passed suddenly away, admired by the 
reading public of both continents, and greatly lamented 
by all classes. 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 



Principal Characters. 

Nicholas Nickleby, Sr., Father of Nicholas Nickleby, Jr. 

Nicholas Nickleby, Jr., Hero of the story. 

Ealph Nickleby, Brother of Nicholas Nickleby, Sr. 

Mrs. Nickleby, Mother of Nicholas, Jr. 

Kate Nickleby, Sister of Nicholas, Jr. 

Newman Noggs, Clerk of Ealph Nickleby. 

Miss La Creevy, Artist, Friend to the Nickleby family. 

Mr. Wackford Squeers, Sr., Proprietor of Dotheboys Hall, Yorkshire. 

Mrs. Squeers, his Wife. 

Wackford Squeers, Jr. 



} 



r Children of Squeers, the Schoolmaster. 
Miss Fannie Squeers, 

Smike, a Boy at Dotheboys Hall. 

Madame Mantalini,"! 

,, , T , .. ". > Fashionable Milliners of London. 

Mr. Mantalim, J J 



John Browdie, a Neighbor of the Squeers family. 

Lord Frederick Verisopht, 1 NoUes whom Kate K ick i eby - meets at 

Sir Mulberry Hawk, J her Uncle Ealph's. 

Mr. Vincent Crummies, traveling Showman. 

Charles and Ned Cheeryble, "Cheeryble Brothers," with whom 
Nicholas finds a situation. 

Tim Linkinwater, Cheeryble Brothers' Head Clerk. 
Madeline Bray, the young Lady whom Nicholas Nickleby marries. 
Arthur Gride, an old Miser, Suitor to Madeline Bray. 
Peg Sliderskew, the Housekeeper of Arthur Gride. 
Frank Cheeryble, the Cheeryble Brothers' Nephew, who marries 
Kate Nickleby. 

132 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

By Charles Dickens. 



Nicholas Nickleby, Senior, after a quiet, uneventful 
life for many years on a small landed estate which he 
inherited from his father, Mr. Godfrey Nickleby, decided 
that as his children, Nicholas and Kate, were nearing 
their majority and most of his ready money had been 
spent in educating them, he had better devise some way 
of repairing his reduced capital. He being slow in 
arriving at a decision, his wife, who was of a quicker 
and more ambitious turn of mind, came to his aid. She 
advised that he go to speculating, as his brother Ealph 
had done; who, instead of plodding along in the country, 
had taken his patrimony, as soon as he received it, and 
gone to the metropolis, and was now a comparatively rich 
man. Mr. Nickleby listened to her, went to speculating, 
lost all in the first game, and, in the disappointment that 
succeeded, died. After the funeral and the settlement of 
such little effects as the deceased Mr. Nickleby had died 
possessed of, Mrs. Nickleby and the two children — Nich- 
olas, aged nineteen, and Kate, seventeen — moved to Lon- 
don and found a temporary home at a certain number in 
the Strand. As was her duty, the widow immediately 
wrote a letter to Mr. Ralph Nickleby, informing him of 
his and their great loss, not failing to appeal to him for 
aid in this their hour of need. 

In a very ill humor Mr. Nickleby made ready for a 



134 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

call upon his relatives. He found them poor indeed, 
only able to take the apartments they were in for a week 
at a time. He himself was incapable of pity for any 
who were .unfortunate, and it was a very disagreeable 
thing, he told himself, that these people, even though 
they were of his own flesh and blood, should come to 
London without his permission, and without even notify- 
ing him of their intention of so doing, till they were in 
the city and had actually become settled there. He was 
avaricious and cunning; his face, from the grinding, 
narrow life he had lived, had become stern, hard-featured, 
and forbidding. There was nothing in the sad appear- 
ance of his sister-in-law or the beautiful young girl be- 
fore him, or in the manly bearing of Nicholas, that for a 
moment softened him or brought from him an expression 
of sympathy or offer of help. His remarks were un- 
feeling — so offensively so, that Nicholas answered him 
with more spirit than was, perhaps, consistent in a young 
man without means and with no present prospect of 
support. 

"Are you willing to work?" he asked Nicholas, frown- 
ingly. 

"Of course I am," was the haughty answer. 

"Then see here, sir. This caught my eye this morn- 
ing, and you may thank your stars for it." He took 
a newspaper from his pocket and read aloud an adver- 
tisement setting forth the great advantages of education 
that might be derived from Mr. Wackford Squeers's 
academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of 
Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and other * 
items besides those of an educational nature, finishing 
the elaborate newspaper notice by announcing that an 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 135 

assistant was needed in the school, annual salary being 
five pounds sterling. Mr. Nickleby, anxious to get rid of 
Nicholas in some way, spoke in terms of praise of what 
he made believe he regarded as a very fine offer. That 
young man, anxious to make a beginning towards inde- 
pendence, signified his willingness to accept the situation, 
if he could but receive the appointment; but the thought 
of others was in his mind, and he asked what would 
become of those he would have to leave behind. His 
uncle stopped him by replying that he would care for 
them till they were in a way to care for themselves. 

"Make yourself of use to Mr. Squeers," said Mr. 
Nickleby, "and you'll rise to be a partner in the estab- 
lishment in no time. Bless me, only think! if he were 
to die, your fortune is made at once." 

Without loss of time Nicholas was hurried to the place 
in the city where Mr. Squeers might be consulted, and 
through his uncle's influence he secured the place in the 
school, and was under engagement to start to Yorkshire 
on the morning following. With words of affection from 
his mother and sister, which words were impeded by 
tears of regret at the thought of their separation, Nicholas 
packed his box; and even in his grief at parting, with 
the buoyancy of youthful hope he wove bright dreams of 
what he might do sometime, — have a home of his own, 
and have his mother and Kate keep house for him. 

It was six o'clock in the morning, and Nicholas had 
risen quietly so as not to disturb his mother and sister. 
He wrote a few lines in pencil to say the good-bye which 
he was afraid to pronounce, and laying them, with half 
his scanty stock of money, at his sister's door, shouldered 
his box and quietly crept down stairs. He made his way 



136 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

to Mr. Squeers's town office and found that worthy gentle- 
man waiting, with five forlorn-looking little specimens of 
boys, for the early morning coach. With scanty break- 
fasts, the children were huddled in on top of the coach, 
where they sat, hungry, sleepy, subdued. All that day 
they traveled in the cold, — made colder, as the night came 
on, by a cutting wind and blinding snow, — with still an- 
other day of hunger and suffering before them which not 
one of them dared object to or murmur against. At six 
o'clock they stopped at Dotheboys Hall, — or rather, some 
three miles from that place. 

"You needn't call it a Hall down here," said Squeers, 
significantly, to Nicholas. "The fact is, it ain't a Hall," 
he added, drily. "We call it a Hall up in London, be- 
cause it sounds better, but they don't know it by that 
name in these parts. A man may call his house an 
island if he likes; there's no act of Parliament against 
that, I believe?" 

"I believe not, sir," answered his assistant. 

Arrived at their destination, he observed that the 
school was a long, cold-looking house, one story high, 
with a few straggling outbuildings behind, and a barn 
and stable adjoining. A tall, lean boy, with a lantern in 
his hand, unlocked the yard gate to give the newcomers 
admission. 

"Is that you, Smike?" said Squeers. 

"Yes, sir. Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire," an- 
swered Smike, humbly. 

"Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?" demanded 
his master, sharply. 

" Only in the kitchen, sir. Missus said, as I was sitting 
up, I might go in there for a warm." 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 137 

"Your Missus is a fool," said Squeers. "You'd have 
been a deal more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage." 

Many unpleasant misgivings had Nicholas had during 
the whole journey, and now he felt a depression of heart 
that he had never had before. If the house was dreary- 
looking outside, the inside was its counterpart. Nicholas 
felt that over the very entrances might have been seen 
the words, "Who enters here, leaves hope behind." His 
attention was drawn particularly to the boy whom Squeers 
had addressed as Smike. When the master was emptying 
the pocket of his great coat of papers and letters, Smike 
glanced at them with a timid, though keen, expression, as 
if there might be a letter among them for him. The 
whole appearance of the boy was one of neglect and 
abuse, and no one could look at him for a moment with- 
out a great feeling of pity for him. 

"I'll tell you what, Squeers," said Mrs. Squeers, as 
Smike left the room, " I think that young chap 's turning 
silly." 

"I hope not," said her husband, "for he's a handy fel- 
low out of doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. 
I should think he 'd have wit enough for us, though, if he 
was. But come; let's have supper, for I am hungry and 
tired, and want to go to bed." 

Had anyone ever told Nicholas of the system carried 
out at Dotheboys Hall, of its horrible punishments and daily 
tortures, of the impositions practiced on the unoffending 
boys in the miserable institution kept by Squeers, ably 
seconded, or rather, ably instigated to all that he did, by 
Mrs. Squeers, he would have set the story aside as one 
invented to while away an hour, if amusement or enter- 
tainment could possibly be found in such a tale of horror. 



138 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

After his supper, which was so artfully managed that it 
was no supper at all, arrangements were made for his 
sleeping that night. He learned that he was to find 
some place among the boys in the miserable dormi- 
tory, where, huddled together, five in a bed, covered with 
rags whose scantiness was supplemented by the ill-assorted, 
ragged clothing which they wore in the day time, they 
slept the night away, having retired in fear and trem- 
bling, and awakening each morning with a dread of what 
they knew was before each one of them. A long ride of 
over two hundred miles softened the hardness of the part 
of a bed upon Which Nicholas slept, and notwithstanding 
his agitation and disappointment, he slept soundly, and 
his dreams were of a more pleasant nature than one 
might imagine. He was wakened next morning by the 
voices of both Mr. and JVCrs. Squeers, the former notify- 
ing him that he would have to dispense with his morn- 
ing ablutions, as the well was frozen up, and the latter 
angrily pursuing her search for something which she 
designated as the school spoon. Mr. Squeers tried to 
soothe her by telling her that the spoon was of no conse- 
quence that morning, to which she angrily retorted that 
it was of consequence, as it was "brimstone morning," 
and she must have it. 

"We purify the boys' blood now and then, Nickleby," 
said Mr. Squeers in explanation. Mrs. Squeers frankly 
added to what her husband said, by stating that the boys 
had brimstone and treacle administered, partly as a med- 
icine, and partly because it spoiled their appetites and 
cost less than breakfast and dinner. Smike was called 
in, and suggested that perhaps the spoon might be found 
in Mrs. Squeers's pocket, which proved true, Smike receiv- 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 139 

ing a boxing for his supposed impudence in contradict- 
ing his mistress — she having, previous to his appearance, 
told Mr. Squeers that she knew nothing about the spoon — 
and, further, being promised a severe thrashing if he 
were not more respectful in the future. 

Squeers led Nicholas to the rear of the house, and, 
opening a door, exclaimed, — 

"This is our shop, Nickleby!" , 

The place was nothing but a bare and dirty room, 
with a couple of windows composed of glass in small 
proportion and old paper preponderating; a couple of 
long, old, rickety desks, defaced in every way; two or 
three forms; a detached desk for Squeers, and another for 
his assistant; bare, dirty walls, and ceiling finished like a 
barn, — and this was the schoolroom to which Nicholas 
had so gladly looked forward, while his uncle was read- 
ing to him the advertisement in regard to Dotheboys 
Hall. If the schoolroom gave him horrors, what can 
be said when he saw the boys drawn up in line in front 
of Squeers, as he seated himself behind the teacher's 
desk? In their faces there was no trace of hope, but each 
one was pale and haggard, their countenances being 
those of old men; their bodies were deformed or stunted 
in growth; all the beauty in their young faces was marred 
with the scowl of their constant suffering; every kindly 
sympathy and affection which forms part of child-life 
was blasted, and all that was evil in their natures was 
taking the place of the pure. Painful though this was 
to the young tutor, the sight of Mrs. Squeers presiding at 
one of the desks over a great basin of the treacle, a 
spoonful of which each hapless boy in the school was 
compelled to swallow, was a great deal more so. The 



140 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

last boy had taken his dose. Squeers gave the desk a 
heavy rap with his cane. 

" Is that physicking over ? " he asked his wife. Being 
assured that it was, he said, in a mocking, solemn voice, 
" For what we have received, may the Lord make us truly 
thankful!" 

He opened school after this breakfast, and gave Nich- 
olas a specimen of his teaching. Before the class was 
through, the young master found that the man with whom 
he was dealing was a cunning knave, up to every artifice 
that could possibly enrich himself, rich in expedients 
whereby he might grind and reduce to servility the poor 
creatures whom indifferent parents or guardians had 
entrusted to his care. He had almost made up his mind 
to fly from the place, and yet the thought of his mother 
and sister, and of his Uncle Ralph, whose anger he knew 
he would thereby incur, kept him to the duties which he 
had assumed. Against Smike there seemed to be enter- 
tained, both by Squeers and his wife, a wonderful antipathy. 
Every mistake unaccounted for was visited upon this un- 
offending creature. All the sense with which he was 
endowed at birth had been beaten out of him by his cruel 
masters, because he had been sent to them and then 
forgotten by his friends. Nicholas was kind to Smike, 
who became tenderly attached to him. One morn- 
ing, a few weeks after Nicholas went to Dotheboys, the 
drudge did not answer to his early morning call, and on 
investigation it was found that he had run away. Search 
was instituted, and after several hours Mrs. Squeers re- 
turned in triumph, with the deserter from her ranks in 
close custody. 

In the afternoon the whole school assembled to witness 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 



141 



Smike's punishment. Strengthening himself with a 
liberal allowance of spirits, and armed with an instru- 
ment of flagellation, strong, supple, wax-ended, and new, 
Squeers called the culprit to him from an adjoining room. 
Abuse was heaped upon him by both Squeers and his 
wife, and then the lash descended with an awful blow. 
Squeers had raised the whip and was about to give the 




"Stop!" he cried, in a voice that made the whole room ring. " This 
nust not go on" 



second cut, when Nicholas interfered. "Stop!" he cried, 
in a voice that made the whole room ring. " This must 
not go on." " Must not go on ! " said Squeers in mockery, 
enraged at the interference. In a moment he was con- 
fronted by his assistant, and high words passed between 
them. Squeers was almost beside himself with rage. 
He ordered Nicholas to be silent, and again took hold of 



142 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

Smike. Nicholas told him that he would punish the 
poor boy at his own peril. He had scarcely spoken, when 
Squeers spat upon him and struck him a blow across the 
face with the instrument of torture, which left its cruel 
mark. Smarting with pain, Nicholas wrested the whip 
from him, and, holding him securely, beat the great 
ruffian till he roared for mercy. Mrs. Squeers hung to 
her husband, but was a hindrance rather than a help. 
Miss Fannie Squeers, the daughter of the house, came to 
the rescue and hurled inkstands at her father's enemy, 
and then beat him to her heart's content. She being a 
young lady, he could do nothing but submit to her 
attack. Growing tired of the contest in which he knew 
that he was victor, he gave Squeers half a dozen finish- 
ing blows and, flinging the despicable object of his wrath 
from him, left the room, packed up his clothes, and in 
a short time had left Dotheboys Hall for good. His 
salary remained unpaid, and he had but a few shillings 
in his purse. That night he slept in a barn, and on 
awakening in the morning he found that Smike had fol- 
lowed him. . Seeing that he was awake, the poor fellow 
dropped on his knees before him and begged that he 
might go along with him, only to be near him. 

"And you shall," said Nicholas. "And the world shall 
deal with you as it does by me, till one or both of us 
shall quit it for a better." Nicholas started for London, 
followed by his shadow. He did not intend to let his 
friends know of the change he had made, till he 
had secured employment. Happening to think of 
Newman Noggs, his uncle's servant, who had treated him 
kindly when in the city before, he sought him and 
through his aid secured lodgings, and pupils also, in a 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 143 

part of the city where none but families in ordinary cir- 
cumstances dwelt. Glad of anything that would keep 
him above want, he accepted an offer .from a Mrs. Ken- 
wigs to become instructor to her little girls, and was faith- 
ful to his duties, though he was diligent in search for 
something that was higher and more remunerative. 

Where were his mother and Kate? Instead of taking 
them to his home to cheer and brighten it, Mr. Ralph 
Nickleby looked around for some place where work might 
be obtained for the daughter, and had, indeed, serious 
notions of consigning his sister-in-law to a respectable 
almshouse. In a way of his own he found that a place 
could be made for Kate in the millinery and mantua- 
making establishment of Madame Mantalini, wha had 
grown rich, presumably, and prosperous in her chosen 
business. At Kate's earnest request, her mother remained 
in the city with her; and for the present, her uncle 
informed them, he would allow them rooms in a building 
belonging to him, which was now unoccupied, and which 
was situated in a remote part of the city. He painted 
such beautiful pictures of the future, wherein Kate might 
be a rich woman if she attended closely to the claims of 
her work, that Mrs. Nickleby was soon even more enthus- 
iastic than he. Alas, poor Kate! With no natural 
fitness for the work, she made slow progress at first, but 
by constant effort soon began to succeed better. 

One day she was surprised, on going home, to find her 
uncle present. He seemed in evident good humor, and 
invited her next evening to his house to dinner, telling 
her to look her best, and that he would send a carriage 
at his own expense, but that on no account must she 
disappoint him. Kate was not flattered by the invita- 



144 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

tion, but her mother, who received every act of Mr. Kalph 
Nickleby with delight, urged her to go, and hours before 
the time appointed had her dressed and in waiting. 
Throughout *her life, Kate had cause to remember the 
whole affair with mortification and humiliation. She 
not knowing it, her uncle had wished her to be present 
as a candidate for the attentions of a young nobleman, 
Lord Frederick Verisopht, hoping that her beauty might 
win that young man's regard, and end in her successful 
establishment in life in a magnificent home of her own, 
— not only for her own good, but that it might reflect 
credit upon him also, as he thought that a title in the 
family should not be despised. His guests, men of easy 
manners and of still easier morals, saw through his 
schemes, and one of them, Sir Mulberry Hawk, was 
offensively familiar with Kate. The guests being elated 
by wine, unprincipled, having no respect whatever for the 
host, and seeing that the poor girl was unacquainted with 
the ways of such as they, and that her uncle did not 
protect her during the time that she remained in their 
presence, their insulting attentions became tortures. Not 
able to endure it longer, she left the parlors and fled 
up stairs, where she gave way to her feelings in violent 
sobs and tears. Mr. Nickleby, seeing that his scheme 
had failed, tried to comfort her, and sent her home. 

The next day he read a letter which Fanny Squeers 
had written to him, detailing her father's late unpleasant- 
ness; and he made his way to Mrs. Nickleby 's apartments 
to tell her of her undutiful son, his ungrateful nephew. 
Kate had said nothing to her mother of the unpleasant 
features of the party, and Mrs. Nickleby met him with 
her usual sense of his importance. He proceeded to tell 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 145 

them of the actions of Nicholas, and that he had not only 
lost his situation, but that he had also induced one of the 
boys in the school to go away with him, and that the 
officers were after him. Of course he had Fanny's letter 
for authority. Visions of her brother in prison were 
added to Kate's present trouble. Nicholas had gone that 
same day to the lodgings where he had parted with 
his family, and learning where they now lived had, in 
company with Miss La Creevy, a friend whom they had 
made during their first few days in London, come to 
their present home. Ralph had just concluded the story 
of his nephew's misdemeanors, when the subject of his 
remarks entered the room. He positively and emphatic- 
ally denied all that was untrue in Miss Squeers's letter, 
but told of the brutal treatment which the pupils at 
Dotheboys Hall received, and of how he had defended 
Smike and then left, being followed by the boy of his 
own free will. The meeting of the family was a stormy 
one, through Ralph Nickleby's being present. 

Nicholas again left home, and in company with Smike 
started towards Portsmouth, where, he thought, he and 
his humble friend might both obtain employment. At 
an inn on the road they were traveling, he made the 
acquaintance of Mr. Crummies, manager of a theatrical 
company, and in conversation showed such intelligence 
that the manager decided he would make a fair actor. 
Looking for work of any kind that was honorable, he 
accepted the situation; and as the remuneration was 
good, was not unhappy at the prospect before him. 
Smike, who, he thought, could take an inferior part in 
the play, was also engaged. Nicholas studied his part 
well, and on the night of his debut Mr. Crummies was 
10 



146 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

delighted at his success, as he shared the applause with 
the star of the company. For some time the company 
remained in the same town, and Nicholas was increas- 
ingly popular. Greater achievements were prophetically 
before him, when he received a letter from a friend in 
London stating that Kate was in danger, and needed his 
protection. He quit the company immediately, and 
hastened home, to find his mother and sister in a miser- 
able part of the city, in lodgings such as Ralph Mckleby 
would be expected to furnish them; and learning from 
his sister what her temptations were, through the contin- 
ued attentions of Sir Mulberry Hawk, without notifying 
his uncle he moved his mother and Kate back to Miss 
La Creevy's neighborhood, where he knew they would be 
safe, and then began his search for employment. He 
did not need to seek in vain nor have his search pro- 
longed. 

Brighter days dawned upon them as soon as they were 
out of communication with Ralph Mckleby. There was 
something in the frank, noble bearing of Nicholas that 
would win respect wherever he might be; and one day he 
met one of the twin brothers of the well-known firm of 
Cheeryble Brothers, who, on learning his history, or at 
least as much as was necessary for their purposes, engaged 
him as assistant in their warehouse, at a salary of one 
hundred and twenty pounds per annum. The joy of 
Nicholas was unbounded. He could give his mother and 
Kate a home, without the latter's being compelled to go 
out and make associates who regarded her merely for her 
beauty or the value of her work, which work had been 
both uncongenial and unremunerative. The Cheeryble 
Brothers had a little cottage, pleasantly situated in the 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 147 

suburbs of the city, which they offered to Nicholas at 
reasonable rates, and in a short time the family of the 
lately deceased Nicholas Nickleby were as comfortably 
fixed as they had been during his lifetime. Nicholas 
was punctual and faithful in his duties, and soon won the 
favor of both the brothers, as well as that of Mr. Tim 
Linkinwater, who for forty-four years had been their con- 
fidential clerk and bookkeeper. Smike was found to be 
a useful member of the family, and took delight in taking 
care of the yard and garden belonging to their home. 
The poor Nicklebys were once more happy. Their rich 
uncle, who was steeled in his avariciousness and love 
of money, and who scrupled not to obtain it by very 
questionable means, was alone and miserably unhappy. 
Smike was as happy as it was possible for one of his 
limited capacities to be, but the poor fellow was once 
more to feel the iron grip of Squeers's cruel hand, before 
he would be put beyond the powers of torture. One day 
he had been at Miss La Creevy's, and was returning 
home, when Squeers, who was in the city on business 
with Ralph Nickleby, spied him. He captured him, and 
without any resistance Smike was put in a coach and 
carried to the inn where Squeers was stopping. Fortu- 
nately for Smike, John Browdie, a near neighbor of 
Squeers, was in London with his bride on their wedding 
trip, and Fannie Squeers, who had acted as bridesmaid, 
was along. Hearing that Smike had been captured, 
John determined that he would release him and have 
him returned to the Nicklebys. The bridal party were 
spending the evening with Squeers. John feigned sud- 
den illness, and begged that he might lie down awhile. 
He was shown to the room that Squeers occupied, 



148 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

where Smike was confined. He went to bed, and insisted 
that if he could have quiet and sleep he would soon be 
better. Mrs. Browdie, understanding him well, let him 
alone. In a few minutes he released Smike, and sent 
him, trembling, on his way to his friends. He never 
enjoyed anything more than he did the disappointment 
and rage of Squeers when, on his return, he found that 
Smike was gone. John feigned sleep and innocence, and 
his little ruse was successfully carried out. Poor Smike ! 
he was not intended for a long life. Abuse, neglect, and 
cruel treatment had done their work. Consumption was 
rapidly sapping his vitality; and one day a physician 
whom Nicholas consulted, advised that he be taken to 
the country, where his life might possibly be prolonged. 
Nicholas went with him to take care of him. Heaven 
was merciful to his weakness, and though he seemed 
better, one day, with Nicholas sitting by him, his release 
came to him; and, with love in his heart and upon his 
lips for those who had rescued him from his life of 
drudgery, he went to sleep. The mystery of his life was 
soon after cleared up. 

It would have been surprising, — nay, unnatural, — if 
Nicholas Nickleby, with all his capacity for domestic 
enjoyment and love of friends, had not fallen in love. He 
did, and with Madeline Bray, a beautiful girl over whose 
movements the Brothers Cheeryble had some kind of 
control. Learning that she was of superior family, though 
in reduced circumstances, he prudently kept his love to 
himself, feeling that a poor young man like him should 
not aspire to her hand in marriage. 

Secluded in her quiet home though Kate Nickleby was, 
it would have been an equally strange thing if her beauty 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 149 

and true worth had not in some way been known, and 
some one had not fallen in love with her. The Cheerybles 
had a nephew, Mr. Frank Cheeryble, recently returned 
from abroad, who became intimate with Nicholas in the 
counting-house, and. who visited him in his happy little 
home when work was over. Kate's lover came to her the 
first time Frank saw her. True-hearted and honest, it 
was not many months till he declared his love, and was 
rejected, even though she loved him beyond all others — 
beyond Nicholas even. She told him it could never be, 
as his station was so far above hers that his uncles would 
never permit it. He left London almost immediately, 
and Kate, loving on, unselfishly hoped that her lover 
would find some one worthy of him. 

Ralph Nickleby left his relatives to their own interests, 
though vowing revenge against Nicholas for withstanding 
his authority. He and an unscrupulous usurer like him- 
self, Arthur Gride, with Squeers as a hired tool, were 
working against the interests of Madeline Bray. 

Madeline's maternal grandfather had made a will dis- 
criminating against her, because he had an intense dislike 
for her father, who had led her mother a most unhappy 
life. He died after his daughter, and his will was pro- 
bated; some time after his death another will was found, 
made in Madeline's favor for twelve thousand pounds. 
Through duplicity, this will fell into Arthur Gride's pos- 
session; and he, knowing that Madeline's inheritance 
should be acknowledged, — Ralph Nickleby also knowing 
it, — kept the knowledge of the existence of the last will 
from both Mr. Bray and Madeline. 

One night, Arthur's old housekeeper, Mrs. Sliderskew, 
who had decided to leave him, fled from his house 



150 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

in his absence, and having often seen him handling 
'this will and other papers which he kept in a strong box, 
carried them with her, hoping to make something out of 
them should they ever be needed. He was almost beside 
himself with fear when he found that, his papers were 
gone, and fled to Ralph Nickleby for advice. Ralph 
knew, as well as anyone in London, how to track her 
down; and as Squeers was in the city, under promise of a 
handsome sum, Ralph induced him to undertake getting 
the papers from Mrs. Sliderskew, if she could be found. 
She was found, and under the influence of liberal quanti- 
ties of spirits, which the old woman was partial to, she 
revealed her secret and produced the box. 

Ralph Nickleby's every action had been watched for 
years by Newman Noggs, his hired man, of whom Ralph 
had become suspicious lately, and who had heard enough 
in his master's office to know that evil was being plotted 
against Madeline, as well as against Nicholas, whom New- 
man regarded as his constant friend. He shadowed 
Ralph Nickleby's steps; he tracked Arthur Gride; he kept 
his eye upon Squeers, until he found him closeted with 
Mrs. Sliderskew. The old woman was too far under the 
influence of spirits to notice that, as Squeers handled the 
papers in the box, two figures entered the room and 
stepped quietly in his rear; and Squeers himself knew 
nothing of their presence. He was a slow reader, but as 
he looked over the papers he handed his companion such 
as he thought would be of no help to Ralph Nickleby, 
and she held them over the grate till they lay in ashes. 
The name of Madeline Bray was spoken, and the two 
men behind Squeers, Newman Noggs and Frank Cheery- 
ble, — for these were the men who had entered, — seized the 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 151 

papers, knocked Squeers over, and soon secured him and 
the old woman and placed them under arrest. In their 
trial, which followed soon after, Mrs. Sliderskew was 
found guilty of robbery; and Squeers, as an accomplice, 
shared her fate — transportation beyond the seas as a 
criminal. Arthur Gride escaped through some flaw in 
the law, but soon after met with a violent death. 

The law was stretching out its inexorable hands for 
Ralph Nickleby; and with an iron visage, but a quaking 
heart, he tried to escape it. Dishonest, unscrupulous, 
thoroughly wicked, an old man bent and wrinkled with 
his increasing years, he was being caught in the net 
which he had woven for others. Ruin and disgrace 
stared him in the face, when he was called upon, one 
evening, by Charles Cheeryble. Assuming all his old 
pride and haughtiness, he refused to let his visitor pro- 
ceed with the business of which he told him he had 
come to warn him, and Mr. Cheeryble withdrew. Later 
in the same day, Ralph thought that it might be wise to 
see Mr. Cheeryble, and called at his warehouse. He was 
nshered into the presence of the two brothers, who con- 
ferred together as to the manner of conducting the 
present interview. In answer to his question of what 
they had to tell him, he was told to prepare himself for 
intelligence which, if he had a spark of humanity left in 
him, would make him tremble. They told him of 
Smike, of harmless, innocent Smike, who, after years of 
suffering, in which they did not hesitate to tell him he 
was the chief agent, had gone home; and declared that he 
would be called to account for all that Smike had endured. 
He was confronted with Smike's paternity, by one con- 
cealed behind the curtains in the room, who told him that 



152 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

his own boy, whom for many years he had supposed dead, 
was none other than the ill-used drudge of his miserable 
tool, Squeers. The man faced him with the story of his 
secret marriage, — secret on account of a clause in the will 
of the father of the lady whom he had married, that if 
she married without her brother's consent, the property, in 
which she had only a life interest while she remained 
single, should pass away entirely to another branch of 
the family. The same love of gain which had led Ralph 
to the marriage, led him to its being kept strictly private; 
as the death of the brother, which was then looked for, 
would bring to Mrs. Nickleby quite a handsome prop- 
erty. When his son was born, he was taken a long way 
off and put out to nurse, his mother never seeing him 
but once or twice afterwards, and then by stealth; and 
Ralph, fearing suspicion, never went to him at all. The 
brother of Mrs. Nickleby lingering longer than had been 
expected, she urged her husband to avow their marriage, 
which he positively refused to do. Tired of the double life 
she was leading, and seeing no end to it, when her boy was 
seven years old, and within but a few weeks of her 
brother's death, she eloped with a young man and yielded 
her claims upon her inheritance, as well as upon Ralph 
Nickleby. She died not long after, and Ralph had his son 
brought home and lodged in his front garret. The child 
being sickly, the doctor advised that he be taken to the 
country, which was done. Ralph went away from home, 
and on his return it was told him that the child was dead 
and buried. This was done in revenge for the cruel treat- 
ment he had given the man who had his boy in charge, 
and with the hope of some day telling him the whole 
story and making it the means of getting money from 



NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 153 

him. The boy was placed in Mr. Squeers's school, and 
for six years twenty pounds each year was paid for him. 

The man who was telling the story — for it was none other 
than the one who had had charge of the boy — here said 
that because of continued hard usage from Ralph, he had 
quit his service, and was soon after sent out of the country. 
On his return, after eight years' absence, he had sought 
Ralph to tell him of his son, who, under the name of 
Smike, had been entered with Squeers, but was repulsed 
and did not approach him again, but sought out the boy 
instead. 

As the man finished his story, the lamp in the room 
where they were sitting went out. When it reappeared, 
Ralph Nickleby had left the room and was not to be 
found. 

Up into the front garret of his house, where he had 
almost made a prisoner of his unfortunate child, he 
went, and gave himself up to bitter reflections. Remorse, 
remorse, remorse ! That was for all that was past. Ruin 
and degradation, and perhaps imprisonment, before him ! 
He could bear neither, and throwing a rope over a 
strong hook firmly driven into one of the beams, he 
slipped into the noose which he made, and with a wild 
look around him, put an end to his miserable earthly 
existence. 

Upright and truthful and honorable, the other branch 
of the Nickleby family moved on. The Cheeryble 
brothers were wise men, and they saw what was going 
on in the lives of the young people in their immediate 
social circle, and wisely drew from Mr. Frank and Nich- 
olas their little difficulties. It was in the power of the 
brothers to adjust these, which they very happily and 



154 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 

speedily did. The same day that Madeline gave her 
hand and fortune to Nicholas Nickleby, Kate became 
Mrs. Frank Cheeryble. The sign of " Cheery ble Brothers," 
above the warehouse, was taken down a few years 
later, and the one which took its place reads " Cheeryble 
& Nickleby." Tim Linkin water, much to Mrs. Nickleby's 
disgust, persuaded Miss La Creevy that in their old age 
one hearthstone would do for both, and they began house- 
keeping in the same old house .that he had occupied for 
four and forty years. 

The twin brothers in their retirement are very happy, 
and look out upon what is going on before them with 
young-old eyes, and see much of beauty all around them. 
Mrs. Mckleby lives sometimes with Nicholas and Made- 
line, sometimes with Frank and Kate; she always preserves 
a great appearance of dignity, and relates her checkered 
experiences in life with much solemnity, and with great 
enjoyment to herself. Not far off from Nicholas's country 
home, — which, by the way, is the old house wherein he 
and Kate were born, — is a little cottage in which our old 
friend Newman Noggs lives contentedly, superintending 
the affairs of Nicholas when business calls him away. 
Within a stone's throw of Nicholas's house is Kate's, and 
daily do they see each other. Their children are growing 
up together, sharing each other's pursuits and pleasures, 
watched over with delight by Newman, who becomes a 
child again with them and directs their play. Smike, in 
death, rests beside the uncle who in life knew nothing of 
him. The children wreathe garlands of flowers during 
the summer time, and put them on his grave; and their 
eyes fill with tears, and they speak gently, whenever the 
name of their poor cousin is mentioned. 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 



Principal Characters. 
Mrs. Copperfield, Mother of David Copperfield. 
David Copperfield, Hero of the story. 

Peggotty, properly Clara Peggotty, Servant and Friend of the Cop- 
perfields. 

Miss Betsey Trotwood, Grandaunt to David Copperfield. 

Mr. Chillip, the Apothecary. 

Mr. Peggotty, *| 

Ham Peggotty I Eelatives °f Peggotty, Friends of David Copper- 

' J field. 

Little Emily, J 

Mr. Murdstone, Second Husband of Mrs. Copperfield. 
Miss Jane Murdstone, his Sister. 
Mr. Barkis, afterwards Husband to Peggotty. 
Mr. Creakle, Proprietor of a Boys' School to which David is sent. 
Tommy »Traddles and James Steerforth, Schoolmates of David. 
Wilkins Micawber and Emma, his wife, Acquaintances of 
David. 

Dr. Strong, Proprietor of a Boys' School. 

Mr. Wickfield, Lawyer, with ivhom David is put to board. 

Agnes Wickfield, Daughter of Mr. Wickfield. 

Uriah Heep, Law Student in Mr. Wickfield's Office. 

Dora Spenlow, afterwards the Child-wife. 



156 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

By Charles Dickens. 



I was a posthumous child, my father having died six 
months before my birth. I was born on a Friday of a 
March day, at twelve o'clock at night, and it was re- 
marked by those present that the clock began to strike, 
and I began to cry, at the same time. The place of my 
nativity was Blunderstone, in Suffolk. Miss Betsey 
Trotwood, my father's aunt, was the principal magnate in 
the Copperfield family. She had married a man younger 
than herself, and on account of incompatibility she in- 
duced him to go to India for an indefinite time — which in 
his case meant ten years, as at the end of that period, 
whether willingly or unwillingly, the chronicle saith not, 
he received a summons and obeyed it (or so it was 
popularly believed, though it was not true,) to lay aside 
earthly cares and go "where the wicked cease from 
troubling, and the weary are at rest." My father had 
been a great favorite of his aunt, but he mortally 
offended her by marrying my mother; she cut him off, 
and never saw him again. The day of my birth, I have 
since been told, my mother was sitting before the fire, 
looking gloomily at the prospect before her. A strange 
figure entered the yard, and, contrary, to all custom 
polite and well regulated, instead of ringing the bell she 
pressed her face against the window, till her nose was 
actually flattened and looked like a great white button 

157 



158 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

fastened to the glass. Her singular actions convinced 
my mother that this visitor was Aunt Betsey Trotwood, 
or, as she always called her, Miss Betsey. 

After several pointed questions into the personality and 
prospects of mother, Aunt Betsey informed her that she 
had a strong presentiment that the expected heir to the 
Copperfield name and limited estate would be a girl. She 
declared that from the moment of its birth she intended 
to be its friend and godmother, and bespoke for it the 
name Betsey Trotwood Copperfield. That night I was 
born — a boy. Aunt Betsey was so enraged that she took 
her bonnet by the strings and aimed it at Mr. Ghillip, 
the doctor in waiting, then put it on bent out of shape, 
walked out of the house, and never came back. 

My childhood, till I was eight years old, was a happy 
one, spent with my sweet girl-mother and Peggotty, our 
maid-of-all-work. I was a child of close observation, — 
I have heard that all posthumous children are, — and I 
not only paid much attention to birds and bees and ob- 
jects in the outside world that any healthy child would 
be interested in, but began studying character as well. 
I saw that there was a great difference between mother 
and Peggotty, who were opposites, and yet each of them 
was very beautiful to me. I would ply both of them 
with questions, which were answered intelligently, to 
the best of their ability. There was a character who 
came into my life about the time mentioned above, that 
I began to observe with my usual discrimination. He 
was a tall, black-haired, black-whiskered man, with the 
blackest of eyes, who frequently escorted my mother home 
from a neighbor's, where she was wont to spend an even- 
ing, or from church; and who, after several attentions of 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 159 

this kind, took the liberty of calling and spending an 
evening with mother, who, I must confess candidly, 
seemed highly delighted with every attention which Mr. 
Murdstone (that was the gentleman's name) paid her. 
Peggotty and I saw what was going on — the- former 
understanding the significance of each act, I in happy 
ignorance of everything except that mother had made a 
new friend. Not nearly so much of mother's time was 
now given to me as formerly, and consequently I became 
the constant companion of our faithful servant, between 
whom and myself the tie of friendship was uncommonly 
strong. 

About two months after Mr. Murdstone began coming 
to our house, a remarkable event happened to me. I 
was granted permission, without asking for it, to go with 
Peggotty to Yarmouth to visit her brother, and was wild 
with expectations of pleasure, as we would be near the 
sea, and could see boats and ships and fishermen and the 
beach and have delights innumerable. The fortnight 
we spent with Mr. Peggotty and his family of impecuni- 
ous relations — for Mr. Peggotty himself was a bachelor — 
is one of the bright spots in my life. Their seaside home, 
the only home they had, was in a boat which was no 
longer fit for seafaring purposes, but which the present 
occupants had made very comfortable, and which, from 
its uniqueness, was to me one of the most delightful 
places of abode imaginable. From the head of the house 
down to Emily, the orphan niece, the inmates of that 
boat-house were intensely interesting, and I soon learned 
to love them. Earthly pleasures end; my fortnight at 
the seashore was brought to its termination. We, Peg- 
gotty and I, arrived at home on the evening of a raw, 



160 DAVID COPPERFTELD. 

cold day — no mother in sight, but a smart new servant 
moving around with significant looks, and a general 
appearance of strangeness throughout the house. 

"Where's mamma, Peggotty?" I cried. 

Peggotty, after more circumlocution than was neces- 
sary, finally answered my excited questions. 

"Master Davy, what do you think? You have got 
a Pa!" 

"Got a Pa!" How soon I realized the full breadth 
and scope of the words! That was why no mother had 
met and given us greeting; that was why, when I went 
into the parlor and saw mother, she rose timidly and 
came to me, all gladness and joy at my return suppressed 
.by the warning of Mr. Murdstone, the new Pa, who said : 
"Now, Clara, my dear, recollect! Control yourself, always 
control yourself! Davy boy, how do you do?" 

When the new Pa and I were left alone for a few 
moments that evening, his wicked black eyes grew more 
wicked as he said, making me stand before him and 
looking steadily into my eyes and pressing his firm lips 
together, "David, if I have an obstinate horse or dog to 
deal with, what do you think I do?" 

" I don't know," I answered. 

"I beat him," he replied. "I make him wince and 
smart. I say to myself, 'I'll conquer that fellow'; and 
if it were to cost him all the blood he had, I should do 
it. What is that upon your face ? " 

"Dirt," I said. I did not tell him that it was tears as 
well. I would have burst before I would have told him 
that. He ordered me to wash my face and go down 
stairs with him. 

"Clara, my dear," he said to mother, "you will not be 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 161 

made uncomfortable any more, I hope. We shall soon 
improve our youthful humors." If the new Pa was to 
be held in fear, what shall I say of his sister, Miss Jane 
Murdstone, — a metallic lady she seemed to me, — who 
arrived at the Rookery, our home, in the evening of- the 
day of my return. 

" Generally speaking, I don't like boys," she said, 
when I was introduced to her. I found that out before 
long, without any acute powers of observation. I found, 
too, the next morning after Miss Murdstone's coming 
among us, that she, like her brother, had come to stay. 
She had not been there a day till she demanded the 
keys; till she had been in every cupboard and bin and 
closet ; till in every act she showed to my mother and 
Peggotty and me that she was to be the real mistress 
of the house; and my pretty, gentle mother, with but 
a feeble show of resistance, let her have her way. I 
never knew my mother, after Miss Murdstone's regime 
began, to give an opinion on any matter without first 
appealing to the living metal, or ascertaining by some 
sure means what Miss Jane's opinion was. 

I was soon in disgrace with Mr. and Miss Murdstone. 
Mother was my teacher, but the two aforesaid sat during 
each lesson, with piercing eyes and inflexible determina- 
tion, watching the progress of my development, in conse- 
quence of which my thoughts became confused and words 
a minus quantity, and I was zero in their sight as well as 
in mother's and my own. The new Pa and his sister, 
disgusted with both pupil and teacher, decided that I 
must be sent away to school; and to school, to Salem 
House, a boys' school kept by Mr. Creakle, a bankrupt 
hopdealer, was I sent. Mr. Creakle himself, with his wife 
n 



1G2 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 



and Miss Creakle, were absent when I arrived at Salem 
House, — indeed, all the boys were absent, it being vaca- 
tion time, which fact I was not aware of, never having 
been where vacations were necessary, — but it was on my 
first meeting with the proprietor of the school after his 
return that, standing in his presence almost frightened to 
death, I formed my opinion of him — an opinion which I 




" I must be sent away to school; and to school, to Salem House, a 
school kept by Mr. Creakle, a bankrupt hopdealer, was I sent." 



never had cause to change, and which was given to me 
in his own words: — 

" Do you know me ? Hey ? . . . But you will soon. . . . 
1 11 tell you what I am," lowering his voice from the high 
key in which it was pitched. "I'm a Tartar, . . . and 
when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it done. 
I am a determined character. That's what I am. I 
do my duty. That's what I do." These declarations 
on Mr. Creakle's part I amply verified, especially the first, 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 163 

during the months following, in which I was an inmate 
of the Creakle establishment. Oh, the cruelties practiced 
in that dreadful school ! My first half year passed, I 
cannot tell how. I was saved many of the tortures which 
the other poor boys in the school had inflicted on them, 
by being the roommate of J. Steerforth, the son of a 
rich widow, who was the only parlor boarder that the 
school boasted, and to whom unlimited favoritism was 
always shown. 

I went home to spend my vacation. I found Mr. and 
Miss Murdstone the same, inflexible and masterful, 
ruling my poor mother with a hand of steel; I found 
Peggotty faithful and true to all that concerned the 
Copperfield interests; I found mother sitting with a 
puny baby in her arms, looking thoughtful, but oh! so 
solitary and alone that, child as I was, I felt like falling 
at her precious side and weeping for her. Her lynx-eyed 
guardians had not looked for me on the early coach, and 
were several miles distant from home. Mother roused 
herself on my arrival, and she and Peggotty and I spent 
such an evening as we had never known since Mr. 
Murdstone came into our little world. Alas ! it was the 
last time that I ever was to be happy and free with 
her. A law of conduct was laid down to me by Mr. 
Murdstone, which I was charged to obey during the 
month which I was to spend at the Rookery, under 
penalty of heavy punishment if I dared to disobey. I 
obeyed to the letter. I was not sorry when the day came 
for me to go away. Of the two evils of my life, I believe 
I preferred Salem House. There I had J. Steerforth to 
stand between me and Mr. Creakle's tyranny; at home 
I had no one to stand between me and trouble — mother 



164 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

endured in silence, Peggotty endured in silence for 
mother's sake. 

How I remember the agony of my birthday in March ! 
Only nine years old, and yet I felt a hundred when I 
was summoned to the parlor and told by Mrs. Creakle, 
who, as well as she knew how, prepared me for it, that 
my mother was dead. As plainly as if it had occurred 
but yesterday, do I remember the journey home and all 
its attendant circumstances. I still feel Peggotty's loving 
arms around me, telling me of mother's last days and of 
her death, and of the baby's — for the poor little fellow 
was mercifully taken away but a few hours after her. I 
still feel Mr. Murdstone's perfect ignoring of me, and 
Miss Jane's neglect; I remember the funeral, and — oh, 
that my memory of what followed might become a 
blank! — I was not to go back to school; Miss Murdstone 
told me that. Where was I to go, and what was to be- 
come of me, were the questions which burnt themselves 
into my heart as with fire. Peggotty settled the question 
for a fortnight, at least. She was going again to visit her 
brother, Mr. Peggotty, and his interesting family, and 
asked Miss Murdstone for permission to take me along, 
which permission was readily given. 

A strange thing happened while we were at the sea- 
side. Mr. Barkis, the driver of the coach between my 
home and Salem House, had, on certain representations 
that I had made to him in regard to Peggotty's accom- 
plishments in the pastry line, — assertions of which he 
had full proof in the tarts and cakes that I shared with 
him on that lonely journey of mine, — conceived a passion 
for the fair cook, and in a way peculiar to himself had 
persuaded me to write a letter to her, the substance of 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 165 

which was: "My dear Peggotty. I have come here safe. 
Barkis is willing. . . . He says he particularly wants you 
to know — Barkis is ivilling" Of what Barkis was willing 
it would be impossible for one of my inexperience to judge. 
Suffice it to say, his willingness had not been reciprocated 
till this visit of ours. Peggotty had been giving little 
hints of matters of her own, but I was so taken up with 
Emily that I paid no attention whatever to anything she 
might say, though to an older head than mine Mr. Barkis's 
visits, which were an event of daily occurrence, might 
have signified much. 

It was announced one day that Mr. Barkis and Peg- 
gotty were going on a holiday together to some place, and 
that Emily and I were to accompany them. As we 
started off, an old shoe was thrown after us — but what of 
that? — and we had not gone many miles till we stopped 
at a church, and Mr. Barkis, leaving Emily and me alone 
in the chaise, took Peggotty by the arm and went in — 
what of that? They were gone a long while, we thought; 
and when they came back, Mr. Barkis announced that the 
lady whose arm he held was no longer Clara Peggotty, 
but Clara Peggotty Barkis. Then we knew that they 
were married. After breakfast next morning the bride 
took me to her own home, — and a beautiful little home 
it was, too, — assuring me that as long as she was alive 
and had a roof over her head, I should find a little room, 
which she called mine, ready for me. Next morning she 
took me back to Blunderstone, and she and Mr. Barkis 
drove on, leaving me under the old elm trees looking at 
the house in which no face beamed on mine with love or 
liking any more. I entered it, and then began a neglect 
of me that was carried out in the most passionless, sys- 



166 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 



tematic manner. I was but seldom allowed to visit any- 
one in the neighborhood, — cruelest of all, I was seldom 
allowed to visit Peggotty, who, however, was constant to 
me, and saw me every week, and that never empty- 
handed. 

In a few months I was put to service in the counting- 
house of Murdstone and Grinby, in the wine trade, 




11 In a few months I was put to service in the counting-house of Murdstone 
and Grinby, in the wine trade, London." 



London, — a poor, lorn child, only ten years old, with no 
one to love me, with no one to care for me. It was 
here that I became acquainted with Mr. Micawber, a 
man who was always waiting for something to turn up, 
and who was to receive me into his house to lodge. Mrs. 
Micawber told me in a burst of confidence that evening, 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 167 

that the fact that Mr. Micawber was in pecuniary diffi- 
culties was why they were to take in a lodger. " Blood 
cannot be obtained from a stone," she said, " neither can 
anything on account be obtained at present (not to 
mention law expenses) from Mr. Micawber." At this 
time of my life, from Monday morning until Saturday 
night, I had no advice, no counsel, no encouragement, no 
consolation, no assistance, no support, of any kind, from 
anyone, that I can call to mind, as I hope to go to 
heaven ! 

Mr. Micawber's troubles reached a climax; he was 
imprisoned, made some kind of an arrangement with 
his numerous creditors, came home, and he and his 
family, who had been very kind to me, and of whom I 
had become quite fond, resolved to try their fortunes in 
the country. When they were gone, I, too, made a 
resolve; it was to run away and tell my story to my 
Aunt Betsey Trotwood, if I could find her. Through 
Peggotty I learned that my aunt lived near Dover, but 
just where, she could not say. I started on my journey 
Saturday night, all alone, with no experience in travel 
or the ways of the world, and had not gotten out of 
London till the boy who carried my box from my lodg- 
ings had robbed me of both the box and its contents, 
and a half-guinea that Peggotty had sent me in her 
letter, besides. 

With but a few pence in my pocket I hurried on the 
way to Dover. It was farther off than I had thought, 
and before I reached the town I was footsore, all my 
money was gone, I had parted with a portion of the 
clothing I had on when I started, and had been robbed 
besides. I presented a most forlorn and woe-begone 



168 DAVID COPPERPIELD. 

appearance when I reached my aunt's and was ushered 
into her presence. Wonder of wonders ! Aunt Betsey- 
did not turn me away w T hen I told her w T ho I was, but 
ordered a bath for me, tucked me upon the sofa, and 
began pouring down stimulants and broths at the same 
time. After I had been dosed and coddled, I was taken 
upstairs and put to bed, my aunt locking my door on 
the outside, to prevent my running away, I suppose. At 
breakfast next morning she informed me that she had 
written to Mr. Murdstone about me. I was terrified; but 
my terror was increased a hundredfold in a short time 
afterwards, to see that gentleman and Miss Jane halt in 
front of our door. Aunt Trotwood laid my case before 
them, and told them in very expressive language what 
she thought about the treatment I had received from 
them. Mr. Murdstone offered to take me back, if my 
aunt would surrender me unconditionally to him. This 
she had no intention of doing, and the conclusion of the 
conference was, that as Mr. Murdstone had no legal 
claims on me, I remained without any opposition on his 
part with my aunt. Strange it may seem that, notwith- 
standing she had been disappointed in my father and 
with the accident of my sex, she should take a fancy to 
me — not only a passing fancy, but that she should take 
me into her heart and home, and do for me as if I were 
her own son. She decided that my education had been 
sadly neglected, and that I must be put in school imme- 
diately. She ordered out a chaise and pony, and being 
indifferent to public opinion, took the lines in her own 
hands and drove through the streets of Dover, stopping 
at the office of Mr. Wickfield, a lawyer whom she -could 
trust, to ascertain where she might find a school suited to 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 169 

her mind. A cadaverous-looking lad opened the door to 
admit us, and while my aunt and Mr. Wickfield were out 
looking for a school, I, being left in the office, watched 
with much interest the movements of this boy, whose 
name, I learned, was Uriah Heep. 

Aunt was pleased with the school kept by Dr. Strong^ 
and entered me in it; but she was not pleased with the 
boarding-houses around, and Mr. Wickfield asked that 
she would allow me to remain in his house while I 
attended school, as I would be company for Agnes, his 
motherless daughter. Mr. Wickfield frequently repeated 
to my aunt that he had but one motive in life. When I 
was introduced to Agnes, lovely Agnes, I knew what his 
motive was. 

I became acquainted with Uriah Heep, and he was a 
study to me. His humility was wonderful, if one might 
believe his frequent iteration of the fact. "I am very 
umble," he constantly assured his friends. 

" Perhaps you '11 be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's busi- 
ness, one of these days," I said, to make myself agree- 
able; " and it will be Wickfield and Heep, or Heep late 
Wickfield. " 

" Oh, no, Master Copperfield," returned Uriah, shaking 
his head, " I am much too umble for that!" 

I wrote and told Peggotty of my happy life and pros- 
pects at Aunt Trotwood's — for surely no boy ever had a 
life with more happiness crowded into it than mine. The 
retrospect of the years while I was silently gliding from 
childhood into youth under my aunt's care is very pleasant 
to me now, when a man's great cares are mine. Aunt 
was a diamond of the purest type, though she chose to 
make for herself a rough setting. In school, one of the 



170 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

very best; at Mr. Wickfield's, where kind consideration 
and love were the order of the day; at my aunt's beauti- 
fully kept home, where I was as a son beloved, — thus 
passed my days and years till I was seventeen years old. 
Before I decided on a profession, my aunt arranged that 
I should travel and visit for a while. 

Let me summarize briefly the events of the next few 
weeks. Went to London; met James Steerforth at the 
theater; we renewed our acquaintance; went with him to 
his mother's; in return, he went with me to Yarmouth 
to visit Mr. and Mrs. Barkis and the Peggotty family; we 
were notified of the engagement of Ham, Mr. Peggotty's 
nephew, and Emily; remained in the full enjoyment of 
all the simple pleasures which these simple-minded peo- 
ple could confer, till I received a letter notifying me that 
my aunt had seen an opening for me in the law and 
urging me to return home; went home and entered the 
law office of Spenlow and Jorkins; was invited to Mr. 
Spenlow's house, where, on being introduced to his 
daughter Dora, there came to me the rnqst interesting 
thing in my life — -I fell madly and desperately in love 
with her; soon after, I learned that Miss Murdstone, 
Miss Jane Murdstone, had been chosen confidential 
companion to Dora, who was a motherless girl; had an 
understanding with Miss Jane, at her own request, and 
doubtless for reasons of her own, when we met at Mr. 
Spenlow's, that bygones should be bygones and not be 
spoken of to the Spenlows, which agreement I kept; met 
Tommy Traddles, a former schoolmate at the Creakle 
school; was delighted at the reappearance of Steerforth, 
who, having been at Yarmouth more recently than I, 
brought me word of my friends there, also the news of 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 171 

Mr. Barkis's serious illness and a letter from Peggotty, 
confirming what he told me about her husband; resolved 
to go immediately to her, but was induced to go for a day 
with Steerforth to his home; was impressed with his 
strange manner and words at parting: — 

" Daisy [ a pet name which Steerforth had given to 
David when they were at Creakle's, and which he 
always afterward applied to him], if anything should 
ever separate us, you must think of me at my best, 
old boy. Come! Let us make that bargain. Think 
of me at my best if circumstances should ever part 
us!" 

That time came very soon, and the night he gave me 
his hand in parting at his mother's was the last time 
I ever touched it in love and friendship. I went imme- 
diately to Peggotty 's. Her friends, including Emily, 
were in the little sitting-room, attending upon Mr. 
Barkis, who, to use Mr. Peggotty's expressive words, 
was " a going out with the tide." 

" People can 't die, along the coast," said Mr. Peggotty, 
"except when the tide's pretty nigh out. . . . He's 
a going out with the tide." 

We remained in the house for hours. The dying man 
seemed to rally, and muttered something about driving 
me to school. 

"He's coming to himself," said Peggotty. . . "Bar- 
kis, my dear!" 

He opened his eyes and looked at me, and said, with a 
pleasant smile, "Barkis is willm'!" and then, it being 
low water, he went out with the tide. 

The funeral was over, and in the box that Barkis had 
never for years had out of his sight was found a will, — 



172 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

a will which showed that he died possessed of three 
thousand pounds and many little valuables. 

Peggotty accepted the inevitable without any great out- 
ward show of grief, but we all knew that she was loving 
and true to the memory of her husband. She was to go to 
town with me next day to attend to the business connected 
with the will, when something connected with Emily hap- 
pened that was far more dreadful than the death of all 
the family would have been. How can I write it? Emily, 
the pet and darling of her uncle and her aunt, — Emily, 
the betrothed of honest Ham, had eloped with Steerforth, 
whom I had loved and trusted, and had gone with him 
we knew not whither. She left a note, saying that she 
would never come back again to them unless Steerforth 
would bring her back a lady. God pity her! Steerforth 
was incapable of that. 

My pen refuses to tell of the agony of her uncle and 
of Ham; it never can express my indignation and detes- 
tation of Steerforth, who in this act proved himself un- 
worthy of sympathy and one of the basest among the 
base; and yet the old love for him was not dead — I could 
not forget the past, I thought of him henceforth as a 
cherished friend who was dead. Broken-spirited, broken- 
hearted, disgraced, Ham took up the weary burden of his 
life; Mr. Peggotty, his companion in sorrow, began a 
long, weary search for his darling. " I'm a going to seek 
her, fur and wide," he said. "If any hurt should, come 
to me, remember that the last words I left for her was, 
'My unchanged love is with my darling child, and I 
forgive her ! ' " 

In the months that followed, my love for Dora Spen- 
low became deeper and stronger, and her image was ever 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 173 

before me. I applied myself to the duties of the office 
with greater assiduity each day. Suddenly, when my 
sky was brightest, a dark cloud passed over it. Mr. 
Spenlow died very suddenly, and Dora was entrusted to 
the guardianship of two maiden aunts, and went to live 
with them. It was only by their permission that I would 
now be allowed to see my idol, and I made my request 
for this according to the most approved form, and waited 
impatiently for my answer. At last it came. They 
presented their compliments to Mr. Copperfleld, and in- 
formed him that they had given his letter their best 
consideration, with a view to the happiness of both 
parties, and if he would do them the favor to call upon a 
certain day (accompanied, if he thought proper, by a 
confidential friend), they would be happy to hold some 
conversation, on the subject. To this favor I immediately 
replied, and waited on the Misses Spenlow at the time 
appointed. Thomas Traddles, my old schoolmate, ac- 
companied me. The two ladies welcomed me politely, 
and received my propositions in regard to the hand of 
Dora graciously. I was admitted to the latter's presence 
as soon as my dreaded interview was over, and was 
rewarded for the ordeal through which I had been made 
to pass, by the tenderest and most expressive terms of 
endearment. Dora and I were engaged. It was in the 
power of but one event to make me happier, and that 
would be on our wedding day. 

My aunt was immediately made acquainted with the 
successful issue of my conference with the ladies, and was 
happy to see me happy, and promised to call on the 
Misses Spenlow without any loss of time. 

Weeks, months, seasons passed along, and I came 



174 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

legally to man's estate, having attained the dignified age 
of twenty-one. I had learned the art of stenography, 
and having learned it well, made a respectable income 
by it, being a reporter of Parliamentary debates for a 
morning newspaper. I had developed in another way 
also — I took to authorship with fear and trembling, and 
met with success. I came to be regularly paid for all the 
articles I wrote, and altogether was well off. My aunt had 
sold her cottage in Dover, and we were going to give up. 
our apartments, she to remove to a tiny cottage of her 
own, and Dora and I soon to be married and set up house- 
keeping for ourselves. Such a bustle and stir as Aunt 
Betsey and the Misses Clarissa and Lavinia Spenlow were 
making! They were ransacking London for articles of 
dress or of furniture for Dora and me to look at. Even 
Peggotty had come to London, and her share in the excite- 
ment seemed to be to clean everything over and over 
again. 

Time waited not, and the wedding day was ushered in 
by a perfect morning. Dressed in their best, the elderly 
ladies in the wedding party entered the church with us. 
All that happened there is a beautiful dream to me, one 
feature of which I remember distinctly — my walking so 
proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife 
upon my arm, and hearing people whispering, as we 
passed, of what a youthful couple we were and of the 
beauty of the bride. After the wedding breakfast, we 
entered a carriage, and amidst the congratulations of our 
friends we drove away to our own pretty cottage, which 
was furnished ready to receive us. How happy we were ! 
What if we were but "babes in the wood," as Aunt Betsey 
called us, in a loving, tender way ? What a time we did 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 175 

have with servants ! Of Dora herself making the attempt 
to supply their deficiencies, I have a loving recollection, 
as well as of her utter failure in the attempt. We would 
laugh over our housekeeping, and then I would make 
believe that I was very serious. Dora would be hurt and 
partly offended; but, as she never knew how to be really 
angry, we always made up, and our love went on and on 
in blissful sunshine. I was "now a successful author, and 
gave up reporting. Aunt loved "Little Blossom," as she 
called Dora. I hinted to her that perhaps she might 
induce my wife to an effort in improvement of home 
affairs. 

" Little Blossom is a very tender little blossom, and the 
wind must be gentle with her," she answered me. . . . 
"These are early days, Trot," she pursued, "and Rome 
was not built in a day, nor in a year. You have chosen 
freely for yourself; and you have chosen a very pretty 
and a very affectionate creature. It will be your duty 
... to estimate her (as you chose her) by the qualities 
she has, and not by the qualities she may not have. The 
latter you must develop in her, if you can. And if you 
cannot, child, you must just accustom yourself to do 
without 'em. But remember, my dear, your future is 
between you two. No one can assist, you; you are to 
work it out for yourselves. This is marriage, Trot; and 
Heaven bless you both in it, for a pair of babes in the 
wood as you are ! " 

"Will you call me a name I want you to call me?" 
said Dora to me one day. 

"What is it?" I asked, with a smile. 

"It's a stupid name," she said, shaking her curls 
for a moment. "Child-wife. I don't mean, you silly 



176 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

fellow, that you should use the name instead of Dora. I 
only mean that you should think of me that way. When 
you are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, 'It's 
only my child-wife!' . . . When you miss what I should 
like to be, and I think can never be, say, 'Still my foolish 
child-wife loves me ! ' For indeed I do." 

The first year of our married life wore on — yes, a year 
and a half. Dora did not, could not, comprehend that 
the responsibilities of a woman were now hers, and she 
did not mature rapidly. She was not strong physically. 
I had hoped that when baby fingers touched her cheek, 
and baby smiles answered her sweet smiles, my child- 
wife would develop into a woman; but it was not to be. 
Her baby's spirit fluttered for a moment on the threshold of 
its little prison, and, unconscious of captivity, took wing. 
After that she faded day by day, and though I would not 
acknowledge it to anyone, I knew that my Little Blossom 
was doomed to an early death. It came sooner than we 
looked for it; and to-day, years and years having passed, 
I pause and gaze in retrospect upon a figure in the 
moving crowd before my memory, quiet and still, saying 
jn its innocent love and childish beauty, "Stop to think 
of me — turn to look upon the little blossom, as it flutters 
to the ground!" I do. All else grows dim, and fades 
away. I am again with Dora in our cottage. 

After Dora's death, both my aunt and I broke up 
housekeeping — she to go back to Dover, I to go abroad. 
Before sailing, I decided to go down to Yarmouth to see 
Ham and visit the old scenes once more. I put up at the 
old inn and went down to hunt for my friend. A terrible 
storm was raging, such a one as had never been seen 
before on this coast, and Ham was not to be found, either 



DAVID COPPERFIELD. 177 

in his cottage or among the men standing in frightened 
groups looking out upon the angry sea. I went back to 
the inn, but could not rest, so passed the time in going 
from the inn to the seashore, and then back again to the 
inn. In the morning a frightful wreck was seen not far 
off. I went down to the coast and gazed again upon the 
awful scene. A fisherman, who had known me when 
Emily and I were children, and ever since, whispered my 
name. 

"Sir," said he, with trembling lips and ashen face, "will 
you come over yonder ? " 

"Has a body come ashore?" I asked. 

"Yes," he said. 

"Do I know it?" I asked then. 

He answered nothing, but led me to the shore; and on 
that part of it where Emily and I had looked for shells, 
— two children, — on that part of it where some lighter 
fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, had 
been scattered by the wind, among the ruins of the 
home he had wronged, I saw James Steerforth lying with 
his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at 
school in our room at Salem House. Ham, too, faithful 
Ham, was drowned while making an attempt to save 
James, not knowing who he was. 

I went away from England, not realizing till I was 

among strangers how sorely I was bereft. My child- wife, 

my beautiful Dora, had gone out of my life into the new 

life so young, so unexpectedly; the friend whom I had 

admired and trusted, who might, by his talents, have won 

fame and honor, had met with so sad a death, his name 

tarnished irreparably; my home was broken up; my 

friends were scattered, — is it any wonder that I was sad ? 
12 



178 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 

I traveled over the Continent, looking at beauties in 
nature and art, in the former of which I took great de- 
light, but the sadness remained; and at the end of three 
years, I went home to my aunt, and Peggotty, and Agnes. 
I sought Mr. Wickfleld and Agnes, — the same lovely 
Agnes that she had been all her life, — and need I say that 
she who had been to me friend, sister, inspiration to all 
that was good and noble, was asked to be and became my 
wife ? After we were married, she told me something 
that Dora said to her just before she died. It was that 
she should occupy the place made vacant by the child- 
wife's death. So Dora knows it all now. 

To-night, sitting in my own loved home, with Agnes at 
my side, and our children, three in number (a real, living 
Betsey Trotwood Copperfield among them) about us, I 
look over the days of the years that are gone. How 
much of sadness, how much of joy, has been crowded 
into them! Dora, in heaven above, is watching over us. 
One face, shining on me like a heavenly light by which 
I look at all other objects, is at my side. I turn towards 
it, and see it in all its beauty beside me — Agnes's dear 
presence, without which I am nothing, bears me com- 
pany. I have achieved literary success, which has made 
me independent and brought me fame. Naught are 
these, naught is anything, compared with the approval of 
my Agnes, who, by her every act and word, is my con- 
stant inspiration, pointing me onward and upward to all 
that is good. 

Closing my eyes for a moment to shut out Agnes and 
our children, I see Mr. Peggotty, after years of faithful 
searching, reunited with his Emily, and Mr. and Mrs. 
Micawber and family, to whom something of real good 



DAVID COPPEKFIELD. 179 

has at last turned up, settled and prospering in far-away 
Australia; I visit a prison, and in one of the cells, answer- 
ing to his prison number, I look upon Uriah Heep, the 
"urnble," whose false humility and hypocrisy and fraud 
have brought him to this place, where he properly be- 
longs; I look upon the Murdstones, who, I am told, are 
practicing upon young Mrs. Murdstone the same inhu- 
manities that they practiced upon my pretty young 
mother; Aunt Trotwood and Peggotty, in the beauty of a 
softened old age, are the last ones upon whom I look, in 
the panorama moving backward. I bid good-night to 
them all, open my eyes, and spend the remainder of the 
evening with my family. 



DOMBEY AND SON. 



Peincipal Characters. 

Paul Dombey, Sr., Head of the firm 0/ Dombey and Son. 

Paul Dombey, Jr., Son of Paul Dombey, Sr. 

Florence Dombey, Daughter of Paul Dombey, Sr. 

Mrs. Chick, Sister of Paul Dombey, Sr. 

Miss Tox, a Friend of Mrs. Chick. 

Mrs. Toodle, known in the Dombey mansion as " Richards," Paul's 
Nurse. 

Mr. Solomon Gills, a ship's Instrument-maker. 

Walter Gay, Nephew to Solomon Gills ; marries Florence Dombey. 

Miss Susan Nipper, Nurse and Maid to Florence Dombey. 

Mrs. Pipchin, with whom Paul boards at Brighton. 

Mrs. Wickam, Paul's Nurse after Richards is dismissed. 

Captain Edward Cuttle, Friend to Solomon Gills and Walter Gay. 

Dr. Blimber, Proprietor of a boys' boarding-school to which Paul Dom- 
bey is sent. 

Mrs. Cornelia Blimber, Daughter of Dr. Blimber, whose special charge 
Paul becomes. 

Mr. Toots a young Gentleman of means, and Student at Dr. Blimber's 
school. 

Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, Friends of Florence and Paul. 

Joseph Bagstock, Major in the army, retired from service. 

Mrs. Edith Granger, second wife of Paul Dombey, Sr. 

Mrs. Skewton, Mother of Mrs. Edith Granger. 

Mr. Carker, Head Clerk and Manager for Dombey and Son. 

Florence and Paul, children of Walter and Florence Gay. 



180 



DOMBEY AND SON. 

By Charles Dickens. 



Paul Dombey, of the late well-known firm of Dombey 
and Son, for many years the firm of Dombey himself, a 
man doing an extensive business and reputed to be of 
great wealth, with great pride in himself and in the name 
of Dombey, was in the excess of joy and happiness when 
one morning it was announced to him that unto his house 
— the house of Dombey, whose sole male representative 
was himself — a son and heir was born. Mr. Dombey was 
known in London and elsewhere in the United Kingdom 
as a prince among the merchants both at home and abroad. 
He had been and was now a successful man, with an un- 
bending will and indomitable energy, with a selfishness 
that admitted of no opposition from anyone in his own 
household or in his employ. He had had but one disap- 
pointment in the eight and forty years of his life, and that 
disappointment had ended in the fruition of hope when his 
son was born. He immediately took the boy — whom he 
named Paul before he was an hour old — into a future part- 
nership, and resolved that the glory of the house of Dom- 
bey and Son, as it was to be, should eclipse the past and 
present of the firm, if such a thing could be possible. 

He had been married ten years when Paul was born. 
It was hinted among those who ought to know, that there 
was no love in the firm of Dombey and Wife, but Mrs: 
Dombey was a good, true woman, who presided at her 

181 



182 DOMBEY AND SON. 

husband's table and did the honors of his house with 
becoming grace and dignity, and he gave her full credit 
for all qualities that reflected credit on the matrimonial 
firm. Six years before the birth of Paul, a daughter, 
Florence, was born, who was regarded as a blessing by 
her mother, but looked upon with disfavor by her father, 
to whom the thought that he, Paul Dombey, should be 
thwarted in the sex of his child was insupportable. He 
never noticed her ; she might as well have been unborn, 
o;r, having been born, died, for all he cared for her. But 
the' boy baby atoned for all in the past. "This young 
gentleman has to accomplish a destiny," he said to Mrs. 
Blockitt, the nurse. " A destiny, little fellow ! " he 
repeated; and he actually took one tiny hand of the in- 
fant and raised to his lips and kissed it. In his magna- 
nimity he even gave Florence permission to go and look at 
her brother. She, poor child, went to her mother instead, 
and clung to her in a loving embrace. 

The infantile Paul (scarcely more than an hour old) 
was to lose his mother soon after he had entered into life. 
Notwithstanding no less a person than Doctor Parker Peps, 
a court physician, and Mr. Pilkins, medical adviser in the 
Dombey family, were in constant attendance, her friends 
soon saw that Mrs. Dombey must die. Clinging fast to 
her little girl, who sobbed over her, she drifted away on 
the sea upon which some day we must all take a sail. 

Mrs. Chick, Mr. Dombey 's sister, and her intimate, Miss 
Tox, had come to the house to offer congratulations, and 
services if need be ; but their services were for the dead 
more than for the living. 

Next in importance to Mrs. Dombey 's death — it would 
be uncharitable to say that it took the precedence in im- 



DOMBEY AND SON. 183 

portance — was the providing of a suitable nurse for baby 
Paul. Mrs. Chick was almost beside herself; at last Miss 
Tox came to her assistance when she was on the verge of 
despair, by introducing Mrs. Toodle, whom Miss Tox had 
induced to come to the Dombey mansion, accompanied by 
Mr. Toodle and the five children, — "four hims and a her," 
as their loving father answered Mr. Dombey's question as to 
how many children he had, — to show to the bereaved hus- 
band that there was no disease in the family, and that his 
son and heir would be in no danger from receiving nour- 
ishment from Mrs. Toodle, who was willing to assume the 
care of him. Proof positive having been given that Mrs. 
Toodle was a proper person for nurse to Paul Dombey, of 
the firm of Dombey and Son (to be), Tommy Toodle, 
her six-weeks-old infant, was intrusted to Mrs. Toodle's 
sister Jemima, along with the other three "hims and a 
her," with Mr. Toodle to oversee the family as heretofore. 

Mr. Dombey took no more notice of Florence during this 
sad time than if she had not been living. After her 
mother's funeral she was taken to her Aunt Chick's, where 
she remained for six weeks. She had her own nurse, Su- 
san Nipper, a girl of fourteen ; but Mrs. Toodle, who in the 
Dombey household was to be known as Richards, being a 
mother with all a mother's instincts, seeing the forlorn ness 
of the beautiful child when she returned home, managed 
it so that Florence might be with her and Paul each day, 
explaining to Mr. Dombey that children thrive better 
when other children were with them, and that Master Paul 
needed Florence to help him to be a lively child. 

Paul, under the excellent care of Richards, grew stouter 
and stronger each day. Cherished by his nurse and loved 
by Florence, the idol of his father for certain selfish and 



184 



DOMBEY AND SON. 




' Managed it so that Florence might be with her and Paul each day" 



D6MBEY AND SON. 185 

ambitious reasons, he also became to Miss Tox an object 
of the greatest and tenderest interest. In this critical 
world of ours there may have been those — indeed, right 
in Mr. Dombey's own house there may have been some — 
who uncharitably, or possibly truly, judged that in seek- 
ing the well-being of Paul, Miss Tox was looking to her 
own interests as a future Mrs. Dombey; but if such there 
were, they prudently kept their thoughts locked in the 
depths of their own minds. Certain it is that Mr. Dom- 
bey was so pleased with the good lady's attentions that 
he thought it would be but a fair return for all her favors 
to confer upon her the dignity and honor of being god- 
mother to his baby. He talked the matter over with 
Mrs. Chick. She happened to hint that "god-fathers, of 
course, are important in point of connection and in- 
fluence." 

"I don't know why they should be to my son," said 
Mr. Dombey, coldly. ..." Paul and myself will be able, 
when the time comes, to hold our own — the house, in 
other words, will be able to hold its own, and maintain 
its own, and hand down its own of itself, and without 
any such commonplace aids. The kind of foreign help 
which people usually seek for their children, I can afford 
to despise; being above it, I hope. So that Paul's infancy 
and childhood pass away well, and I see him becoming 
qualified without waste of time for the career on which 
he is destined to enter, I am satisfied. He will make 
what powerful friends he pleases in after-life, when he is 
actively maintaining — and extending, if that is possible 
— the dignity and credit of the Firm. Until then, I am 
enough for him, perhaps, and all in all. I have no wish 
that people should step in between us." 



186 DOMBEY AND SON. 

In these remarks, delivered with his usual grandeur 
and haughtiness, Mr. Dombey revealed to his sister just 
what he felt in his heart. He wanted no rival in Paul's 
affections. He himself had never made a friend; he 
neither sought one, nor found one. There was one rival 
to Paul's love that he had though, that he could not have 
disposed of even if he would. Paul, from the time that he 
noticed anything, loved Florence over and above all things 
else. Florence, set aside and neglected by her father from 
her birth, loved Paul devotedly, and tenderly, and unself- 
ishly. 

Paul, from his extreme youth and inexperience, was 
not expected to take any interest whatever in the prepa- 
rations for his christening which were going on around 
him. Neither did he, on the appointed morning, show 
any sense of its importance, being but a few months old. 
His father stood in his cold library, as cold as the weather 
of the bleak autumnal day, waiting to receive the com- 
pany who were to be present on the occasion of Paul's 
being carried to church for the first time. As soon as the 
guests had assembled, the christening party started to the 
church. In Mr. Dombey's carriage were Dombey and Son, 
Miss Tox, Mrs. Chick, Richards, and Florence. In Mr. 
Chick's little carriage following were Mr. Chick and Susan 
Nipper. The chief difference between the christening 
party and a party in a mourning coach, consisted in the 
colors of the carriage and horses, so solemn were they. 
Miss Tox's hand trembled as she slipped it through Mr. 
Dombey's arm. It seemed for a moment like that other 
solemn institution, " Wilt thou have this man, Lucretia ? " 
— "Yes, I will"; but she went through her part bravely. 
For some mysterious reason little Paul did not like the 



DOMBEY AND SON. 187 

proceedings, — perhaps he was cold, as were his attendants, 
. — for he rent the air of the church with his cries during the 
first part of the ceremony and had to be carried to the 
vestibule. The christening over, the party repaired to Mr. 
Dombey's for dinner. The dinner, like its master, was 
cold and forbidding, and all were glad when it was over. 

If Paul was deprived of his mother by death, he was 
deprived of Richards in a manner unlooked for by her- 
self and all interested. It had been stipulated when she 
was engaged by Mr. Dombey, that while she was nurse to 
Paul she was not to visit or hold communication with her 
family, sacrificing for the time being her maternal feelings 
in the interests of her little charge ; but on the day of 
Paul's christening, Mr. Dombey, having a scholarship in 
a charitable school to dispose of, conferred the honor upon 
Biler Toodle, the eldest of Mr. Toodle's "hims," and ma- 
jestically informed Richards of what he had done. Though 
she thanked him, she was uncertain about its being for 
her boy's good that he should be a pupil at the " Charita- 
ble Grinders " ; and, in talking the matter over with Susan 
Nipper, that young lady advised that when she next took 
Paul out for an airing she should go to her home and in- 
quire into the whole arrangement and see if it were what 
she herself would approve. She hesitated about taking 
Susan's advice, but love finally prevailed. 

Susan took Florence for her daily walk at the same 
time, and the interview at the house passed off well, even 
though Richards did transfer Paul to Jemima's arms and 
hold and caress her own baby all the time she was at 
home, and even though she did caress the other children 
to show them that she still loved and had not forgotten 
them. But Biler did not return from the school as 



188 DOMBEY^ AND SON. 

Richards hoped, so that she might see hini in his uni- 
form (the management of the charitable school had 
decreed that all children in attendance should wear a 
peculiar garb, so that the world might not be mistaken 
and take them for other than children who were being 
educated by charity), and when she and Susan started 
for home they took a circuitous route with the hope that 
they might meet him. 

Alas! their plans came to grief. An animal that was 
being driven through the neighborhood, becoming en- 
raged, made such demonstrations that everyone in its 
path fled where he could for safety. Florence became 
frightened, and in Susan's efforts to escape, wherein she 
forgot all about her charge, was borne in an opposite 
direction from her nurse and Richards. She was picked 
up and carried off by an old woman to a wretched room, 
where she was stripped of all her own clothing, and 
then, wrapped in rags which were. taken from a heap 
which stood in the room, was turned out to find her way 
home in any way that might present itself. She wan- 
dered for hours, and was then found by Walter Gay, an 
employee of Dombey and Son, and taken home. Richards 
did not prevaricate, but told a straight story. She, from 
being nurse to the junior member of the firm, was 
discharged. Susan, the nurse to Florence, was re- 
tained, with no restriction of privileges. Mrs. Wickam, 
a woman of sad countenance and given much to weeping 
and sorrowful retrospects, took the place of Richards. 

From the day of Paul's christening he seemed to 
be ailing. Miss Tox, with her keen perceptions, and 
Mrs. Chick, who was ever watchful to win the favor 
of her brother and knew that there was no surer way of 



DOMBEY AND SON. 189 

so doing than to take an interest in Paul, saw that Panl 
was not thriving as he should ; and yet neither one would 
have dared to mention the fact to his doting father. 
Some philosophers tell us that selfishness is at the root 
of our best loves and affections. Mr. Dombey's young 
child was, from the beginning, so distinctly important to 
him as a part of his own greatness, or (which is the same 
thing) of the greatness of Dombey and Son, that there is no 
doubt that his parental affection might have been easily 
traced, like many a goodly superstructure of fair fame, 
to a very low foundation. But he loved his son with all 
the love he had. If there was a warm place in his 
frosty heart, his son occupied it; if its very hard surface 
could receive the impression of any image, the image of 
that son was there; though not so much as an infant, or 
as a boy, but as a grown man — the "Son" of the Firm. 

Paul grew to be nearly five years old. He was frail and 
delicate, one of those wise children given to talk far 
beyond their years; and his older friends, who saw that his 
mind was outstripping his body, looked grave and shook 
their heads, but kept their thoughts about him to them- 
selves so far as his father was concerned. Mr. Dombey 
and his son were a strange pair as they sat together and 
talked — the former entertaining nothing but worldly 
schemes ; the latter with thoughts of his own, which 
Heaven alone could interpret. 

" Papa ! what 's money ? " asked Paul of his father one 
day. 

"What is money, Paul?" he answered. "Money? . . . 
Gold, and silver, and copper. Guineas, shillings, half- 
pence. You know what they are ? " 

"Oh yes, I know what they are," said Paul. "I don't 



190 DOMBEY AND SON. 

mean that, papa. I mean, What 's money after all ? . . . 
I mean, papa, What can it do ? " 

His father patted him on the head. 

" You '11 know better by and by, my man," he said. 
" Money, Paul, can do anything." 

" Anything, papa ? " 

"Yes. Anything — almost," said Mr. Dombey. 

"Anything means everything, don't it papa? . . . 
Why didn't money save me my mamma?" returned the 
child. "It isn't cruel, is it?" 

" Cruel ! " said Mr. Dombey, settling his neckcloth, and 
seeming to resent the idea. " No. A good thing can't be 
cruel." 

"If it's a good thing, and can do anything," said the 
little fellow thoughtfully, as he looked back at the fire, 
" I wonder why it didn't save me my mamma." ..." It 
can't make me strong and quite well, either, papa ; can 
it ? " he asked further, and then went on telling his father 
of how he suffered, something of which the elder Dombey 
knew nought. Mr. Dombey was so astonished and so 
uncomfortable, and so perfectly at a loss how to pursue 
the conversation, that he could only sit looking at his son 
by the light of the fire, with his hand resting on his back, 
as if it were detained there by some magnetic attraction. 

Paul continued growing weaker and wiser. Sea air 
was recommended, and he and Florence, with the nurse 
and maid, were sent to Brighton, where he soon seemed 
to improve very much in health ; so much so, indeed, that 
his father decided to put him in school. Accordingly he 
was entered in the school owned and managed by Dr. 
Blimber, whose reputation as an educator ranked very 
high in high circles and among parents who looked for 



DOMBEY AND SON. 191 

astonishing results in astonishingly limited time. In 
short, Mr. Blimber's school was one in which the system 
of forcing was carried out to perfection. Paul Dombey 
became a pupil, and was entrusted as a special charge to 
Miss Cornelia Blimber, Dr. Blimber's only daughter, 
who was as fine a product of the school as had ever 
been produced. Being from her birth subject to the 
system prevailing in the school, she knew no other way 
of teaching, and tried on Paul the same methods, with 
very different results, however. 

Paul, conscientious and obedient Paul, did the best he 
could, but grew weaker daily under the rigorous regime. 
He spent each Saturday and Sunday with Florence, who 
remained at Brighton. She, seeing that he was given 
lessons and tasks far beyond his years, bought a set of 
books like Paul's, and, in addition to her own lessons, 
kept ahead of him in his. Each week when he came to 
her she would go over the lessons of the coming week 
with him, and thus made his hard way easier. But the 
fiat had gone forth from a higher power than Dombey of 
Dombey and Son, and Paul's school days were to be few, 
even though those few were very difficult. The school 
year closed, and Paul and Florence went home. Paul 
was to die, and die soon, even though his father would 
not admit the fact, nor would he have allowed anyone 
to mention the possibility of such a thing to him. Each 
day, each hour, Paul grew weaker, and, it seemed to 
those in loving attendance, wiser and more mature. 
Florence scarcely left him. 

One day he asked, " Did I never see any kind face, like 
mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy ? " 

"Oh yes, dear!" 



192 DOMBEY AND SON. 

" Whose, Floy ? " 

" Your old nurse's. Often." 

i ■ • i 

"Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!" 

On the next day Richards was sent for. 

" Floy ! this is a kind, good face ! " he said, when he 
saw her. "I am glad to see it again. Don't go away, 
old nurse ! Stay here ! " 

His last hour had come. Sister and brother wound 
their arms around each other, and the golden light came 
streaming in, and fell upon them, locked together. He 
spoke to her of the beautiful river that he saw with his 
quickened vision, and of the flowery banks on either side, 
and of the boat in which he fancied himself to be, and of 
one whom he saw standing on the bank ahead. 

"Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face. 
But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is 
not divine enough. The light about the head is shining 
on me as I go ! " 

The old, old fashion — Death ! 

Oh thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion 
yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young 
children, with regards not quite estranged, when the swift 
river bears us to the ocean ! 

After Paul's death, Florence saw less of her father than 
before. He did not know how much she loved him, and 
she, poor child, hoping against hope that the day would 
come when he would love her as he had loved Paul, did 
everything she could to please him, and studied hard 
that she might one day be worthy of his love. Soon 
after Paul's death, Mr. Dombey and a friend, Major 
Bagstock, left London for a change of scene for the 



DOMBEY AND SON. 193 

former, and went to Warwickshire. Unexpectedly, one 
day, as they were taking a stroll, they came upon a 
former friend of Major Bagstock, Mrs. Skewton, who, with 
her young widowed daughter, was boarding for the time 
in the neighborhood. The old friendship was renewed, 
and need we tell it, that Mr. Dombey became interested 
in the younger of the ladies, and that she in a short time 
was his promised wife ? 

Mrs. Edith Granger and Mr. Dombey were well matched 
in many respects. We know what Mr. Dombey was. Mrs. 
Granger was beautiful and graceful and accomplished, 
but her mother always overshadowed her. When Edith 
was but a girl her mother was making plans for her; she 
married her to Mr. Granger, for whom she had no love, 
and since her daughter had been a widow she had been 
constantly at work to marry her again. Mr. Dombey was 
her opportunity and she improved it well, and was de- 
lighted with results. 

The gloomy old Dombey mansion in London, whose 
parlors had never been in use since Mrs. Dombey's death, 
was to undergo a complete transformation. Florence, who 
came and went as she pleased, had taken Susan and gone 
by invitation to visit Sir Barnet and Lady Skettles, 
friends of hers and of Paul's, and on her return to the 
city was amazed to see that the outside of her house had 
been so transformed that she scarcely knew it. Inside 
was more of a surprise to her. She went to her own 
room, which was not yet touched ; she went to Paul's, 
where work was just going to be begun. Susan soon fol- 
lowed her with word that her father wished to see her. 
In what a flutter was her heart! Maybe he was now 
going to love her! 

13 



194 DOMBEY AND SON. 

"Florence," he said when she entered the room, 
"how do you do?" 

She saw that he was not alone, but that two ladies were 
with him. She advanced to him and took his hand and 
raised it to her lips. 

"Mrs. Skewton," he said to the elder of the ladies, 
" this is my daughter Florence." 

"Edith," he said to the younger lady, "this is my 
daughter Florence. Florence, this lady will soon be your 
mamma." 

Florence was startled, but, true to her own unselfish, 
beautiful self, she said, "Oh, papa, may you be happy! 
may you be very, very happy all your life ! " 

There was a short silence. The beautiful lady, who 
at first had seemed to hesitate whether or not she should 
advance to Florence, held her to her breast, and pressed 
the hand with which she clasped her, close about *her 
waist, as if to reassure her and comfort her. Not one 
word passed the lady's lips. Mr. Dombey then offered 
Mrs. Skewton his arm and moved forward, thinking that 
the others were following. 

"Florence," said Mrs. Granger hurriedly, "you will 
not begin by hating me ? " 

"By hating you, mamma!" replied Florence in aston- 
ishment, winding her arms around her neck. 

"Hush! Begin by thinking well of me. . . . Begin by 
believing that I will try to make you happy, and that 
I am prepared to love you, Florence. Good-by. We shall 
meet again, soon. Good-by ! Don't stay here, now." 

And in this new marriage Florence began to hope that 
with her new mother's aid she might gain the love of her 
father, which had been the leading thought of her life. 



DOMBEY AND SON. 195 

In her sleep that night, in her lost old home, her own 
mamma smiled radiantly upon this hope, and blessed it. 
Dreaming Florence ! 

Fresh hope in her father's marriage to the beautiful 
woman who had taken so kindly to her sprang up in 
Florence's heart. The new mother was a spirit of promise 
to her. Soft shadows of the bright life dawning, when 
her father's affection should be gradually won, and all or 
much should be restored of what she had lost on the dark 
day when a mother's love had faded with a mother's last 
breath on her cheek, moved about her in the twilight 
and were welcome company. 

The wedding-day came, and the wedding party went 
to the church. The bride was beautiful and stately and 
cold — cold towards her mother, cold to him to whom she 
was soon to plight her troth. Not from any feeling or 
sentiment of love was she marrying him, but marrying 
him because she needed some one to support her; marry- 
ing him to get rid of future torture from the maneuvers 
and machinations of her worldly-minded and unprinci- 
pled mother. Mr. Dombey was marrying Mrs. Granger 
from equally selfish reasons; her beauty, her accomplish- 
ments, might add to the glory of the Dombey name, — that 
was all, and each was suited. No joy-bells rang their 
peals for either one, but they were married. So, from 
that day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for 
poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till 
death do them part, they plight their troth to one 
another, and are married. 

The wedding journey was over and Mr. Dombey and 
bride came back to their elegantly furnished home, to par- 
ties and receptions, to Florence and Mrs. Skewton, to — mis- 



196 DOMBEY AND SON. 

ery . Not a ray of happiness lighted the home for Mrs. Dom- 
bey but Florence, between whom and herself the strongest 
bonds of love grew — alas! no good omen for Florence. 
Mr. Dombey, soon feeling that the new wife scorned his 
authority and despised him, saw the daily affection be- 
tween his wife and daughter, and became intensely 
jealous. 

Word had reached England during the absence of, the 
newly-wedded pair that the ship in which Walter Gay 
had gone abroad on business for the firm of Dombey and 
Son was lost at sea and all on board had perished, and 
Florence was very sad, as both she and her brother Paul 
had become very much attached to Walter. When alone 
with her new mother she told her of this sorrow, because 
after Paul's death she had adopted Walter for a brother 
and would feel his loss keenly. She also told her that her 
father never was fond of her and she begged her to teach 
her how to win his love. 

" Florence, you do not know me ! Heaven forbid that 
you should learn from me ! .... If you could teach me, 
that were better; but it is too late. You are dear to me, 
Florence. I did not think that anything could ever be 

so dear to me as you are in this little time I will 

be your true friend always. I will cherish you as much, 
if not as well, as any one in this world could. You may 
trust in me — I know it and I say it, dear — with the whole 
confidence even of your pure heart." 

Mrs. Skewton entered into the festivities that followed 
Mr. and Mrs. Dombey's home-coming with all the eager- 
ness of her frivolous nature. Whether the excitement 
was too much for her, whether there might have been 
other influences mental or physical preying upon her, she 



DOMBEY AND SON. 197 

did not say; but one day, in the midst of her preparation 
for gayety, a messenger came unannounced — paralysis — 
and Mrs. Skewton was laid aside, with mind and body 
both shattered. When Brighton was recommended for 
her health, Mr.Dombey,who indeed did appear to like the 
old lady, made immediate preparation for her removal to 
Brighton, hoping that she might gain strength, if not full 
recovery. She rallied, she seemed to be improving, but 
all favorable symptoms proved to be but temporary. Mrs. 
Skewton was to put aside all her attempts at deceit which 
she had practiced during her long life; she was to go 
where she would be known in her full character, and be 
rewarded for the deeds she had done in the body. She 
passed away suddenly, and was buried at Brighton, where 
the ceaseless noise of the waves is heard year in, year out, 
and where life in its gayety and in its misery meet and 
part, unnoted and unmentioned, upon the margin of the 
great sea. 

After the funeral Edith stood upon the seashore looking 
backward with sorrow through life as the old waves re- 
ceded, and forward with dread forebodings as the new 
ones came in to shore. Mrs. Dombey's dislike for Mr. 
Dombey ended in aversion and contempt. The barriers 
between her and her husband grew stronger each day. 
Of equal pride, both possessing indomitable wills, it was 
impossible that they could live together and be happy. 
Even the love that Mrs. Dombey had for Florence in time 
had to be repressed, not for the good of herself, for she 
cared nothing for her husband's pleasure, but for Florence's 
sake, as it was intimated to her that unless the intercourse 
between the two became less affectionate the young girl 
would be dealt with more harshly than ever. Mrs. Dom- 



198 DOMBEY AND SON. 

bey did not tell her of having received this warning, but 
all the hopes that Florence ever entertained of winning 
her father's love through her mother were crushed. She 
felt soon the change in her new mother's manner, and 
the void in her heart over the loss of her companionship 
made the solitude of her home and of her life greater than 
before. 

Mr. Dombey had been married but two years, — two 
years of gilded misery for his wife, two years of domestic 
discord and unhappiness such as had never before been in 
the Dombey mansion, — when Mrs. Dombey, after a stormy 
scene with her husband in which Florence was present, 
decided to end her misery by a secret flight from home, 
her determination being never to return. Great was Mr. 
Dombey's consternation one morning to find that no 
traces of her could be found in his home nor among his 
friends. All the jewels that he had given her, all the 
ornaments and costly clothing that he had bestowed upon 
her, were found heaped together in her dressing-room. 
In Mr. Dombey's frenzy at the disgrace which would attach 
to his name and that of his wife, he lifted up his cruel 
arm and struck Florence when she went to him to offer 
sympathy and consolation. As she tottered and fell, he 
stung her more than ever by bidding her follow her 
mother, as they had been in league together ever since he 
had brought his wife home. Scarcely knowing what she 
did, she ran out of the house, and without a purpose to 
go anywhere in particular, wild with sorrow, shame, and 
terror, her feet guided her to the house of a humble 
friend, with whom she found shelter. 

Troubles did not come singly to Mr. Dombey. Wife 
and daughter both were gone, but what was of greater 



DOMBEY AND SON. 199 

pride and importance to him, the great firm of Dombey 
and Son was tottering, and finally ended in bankruptcy. 
He would listen to no adviser, he stubbornly persisted in 
having his own way, and one morning the doors of his 
office and warehouses were closed, and the world received 
the news of his failure with astonishment. His furniture 
was in the hands of the auctioneer, and his servants, who 
had yielded to his tyrannical sway, bid off many a costly 
article that hitherto they had stood off and looked upon 
with admiring eyes. Mr. Dombey shut himself up in his 
room, refusing to see any one that he could avoid. 

Walter Gay, from whom no word had come since he 
had left England, and whom his friends gave up for lost, 
returned one day very unexpectedly. The boat in which 
he had set sail had been shipwrecked, and only he and 
two sailers were rescued. The only home he knew was in 
the house where Florence had sought refuge, and whither 
he went immediately. He and Florence had not been 
together long ere they felt that the feeling of friendship 
which they had had toward each other in the days gone 
by was growing into the deeper one of love ; and ere many 
days they were plighted lovers. As Walter had a position 
now that would require him in a few weeks to put out to 
sea again, it was decided that they should be married and 
that Florence should make the voyage with him. They 
were married without a father's or mother's benediction; 
but youth and hope and love were theirs, and they went 
to the great ship which, with its white wings spread out 
to catch a favoring breeze, was waiting to receive them. 

Upon the deck, image to the roughest man on board 
of something that is graceful, beautiful, and harmless, — 
something that it is good and pleasant to have there, and 



200 DOMBEY AND SON. 

that should make the voyage prosperous, — is Florence. 
It is night, and she and Walter sit alone, watching the 
solemn path of light upon the sea between them and the 
moon. 

"As I hear the sea," says Florence, "and sit watching it 
it brings so many days into my mind. It makes me 
think so much" ■ 

"Of Paul, my love. I know it does." 

Of Paul and Walter. And the voices in the waves 
are always whispering to Florence, in their ceaseless mur- 
muring, of love — of love, eternal and illimitable, not 
bounded by the confines of this world, or by the end of 
time, but ranging still, beyond the sea, beyond the sky, to 
the invisible country far away! 

Mr. Dombey was alone in the great mansion which 
had been one of the prides of his proud life. Heretofore 
he had been the slave of his own greatness; now he was 
the slave of bitter, remorseful thoughts. He thought of 
his wife; he thought of one of his friends, who had 
proved to be a flattering villain; he thought of Paul, his 
dead son and heir, around whom all his proudest hopes 
had centered; he could not but think of Florence, — and 
now, too late, too late, he felt the injustice he had done 
her. As, one by one, they fell away before his mind — 
his baby hope, his wife, his friend, his fortune — oh how 
the mist through which he had seen her cleared, and 
showed him her true self ! Oh, how much better than 
this that he had loved her as he had his boy, and lost 
her as he had his boy, and laid them in their early grave 
together ! 

The proud man was crushed, was almost maddened. 
Each day he thought that to-morrow he would leave 



DOMBEY AND SON. 



201 




Oh say, God bless me and my little child!" 



202 DOMBEY AND SON. 

the bare house, bereft of all its adornments and furniture, 
but when to-morrow came he could not tear himself away. 
Finally he decided that he could endure his misery no 
longer. 'T was the last day in the old house. Alone 
with his desperate thoughts, all at once he was startled 
by a cry — a wild, loud, piercing, loving, rapturous cry. 

It was Florence. She knelt at his side and was not 
repulsed. 

"Papa! Dearest papa! Pardon me, forgive me! I 
have come back to ask forgiveness on my knees. I never 
can be happy more without it I " Not a word of all his 
unkindness was spoken as a reproach to him, but as 
Florence plead for his love she spoke as if she were the 
offender. 

" Papa, love, I am a mother. I have a child who will 
soon call Walter by the name by which I call you. When 
it was born, and when I knew how much I loved it, I 
knew what I had done in leaving you. Forgive me, dear 
papa ! Oh say, God bless me and my little child ! . . . 
My little child was born at sea, papa. I prayed to God 
(and so did Walter for me) to spare me, that I might 
come home. The moment I could land, I came back to 
you. Never let us be parted any more, papa. Never let 
us be parted any more ! " 

Autumn days are in their glory, and on a certain sea- 
beach are often seen a young lady and a white-haired 
gentleman, always accompanied by a little girl and boy. 
The gentleman is devoted to the children. Sometimes 
he takes the tiny hand of the boy in his, and looks very 
dreamy and thoughtful, and the boy asks, — 

" What, grandpapa, am I so like my poor little uncle 
again?" 



DOMBEY AND SON. 203 

"Yes, Paul. But he was weak, and you are very 
strong." 

" Oh yes, I am very strong." 

" And he lay on a little bed beside the sea, and you 
can run about." 

No one except Florence, the mother of the children, 
knows how much her father loves the little girl. He 
watches her every change and motion, and anticipates and 
ministers to her wants. He cannot bear to have her away 
from him. He even steals to her room and bends over her 
when she is asleep. He loves her always, but shows 
her most affection when no one is near. The child says 
then, sometimes, — 

" Dear grandpapa, why do you cry when you kiss me ? " 

He only answers, " Little Florence ! Little Florence ! " 
and smooths away the curls that shade her earnest eyes. 

And so Dombey and Son is indeed Dombey and daugh- 
ter after all. 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 



Principal Characters. 

Samuel Pickwick, General Manager and Member Pickwick Club (G. M. 
& M. P. C.) 

Tracy Tupman, Member Pickwick Club. 

Augustus Snodgrass, Member Pickwick Club. 

Nathaniel Winkle, Member Pickwick Club. 

Mr. Wardle, whose acquaintance the Members of the Pickwick Club 
make. 

Miss Eachael Wardle, Sister of Mr. Wardle. 

The Misses Isabella and Emily Wardle, Daughters of Mr. Wardle. 

Old Mrs. Wardle, the Deaf Lady, Mother of Mr. Wardle. 

Joe, the Fat Boy, Servant of Mr. Wardle. 

Mr. Alfred Jingle, an Ad/venturer whom the Corresponding Society of 
the Pickwick Club meet. 

Samuel Weller, Servant at the White Hart Inn, afterwards valet to Mr. 
Pickwick. 

Tony Weller, the elder Weller, Father of Samuel. 

Mrs. Bardell, at ivhose house Mr. Pickwick lodges. 

Mrs. Leo Hunter, the Lady of literary pretensions. 

Mr. Leo Hunter, Husband of Mrs. Leo Hunter. 

Dodson & Fogg, Lawyers in the suit of Bardell vs. Pickwick. 

Ben Allen, 



.} 



. Friends. 
Bob Sawyer, 

Miss Arabella Allen, Sister of Ben; weds Mr. Winkle. 

Mrs. Weller, Mother-in-law of Sam and one of the Shepherds. 

Mr. and Mrs. Trundle, Friends of Mr. Pickwick. 



204 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

By Charles Dickens. 



Of the earlier history of the immortal Samuel Pick- 
wick but little is known. He was in the maturity of his 
powers before he appeared to the public in the transac- 
tions of the celebrated Pickwick Club, named in honor of 
him, which club it may be said, while conferring upon 
him this distinction, derived its character and fame 
mainly from having a man so eminently fitted for the 
position at its head. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick 
distinguished himself above all other efforts in a paper 
which he read before the association, entitled, "Specula- 
tions on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with Some 
Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats," which was so 
warmly received that resolutions were passed expressing 
indorsement of it, and to Mr. Pickwick and three 
associates was given the authority to form a new branch 
of the United Pickwickians, under the title of "The 
Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club." Among 
other things mentioned in these resolutions was one 
original to this particular club: "That this association 
cordially recognizes the principle of every member of the 
Corresponding Society defraying his own traveling ex- 
penses; and that it sees no objection whatever to the 
members of the said society pursuing their inquiries for 
any length of time they please, upon the same terms." 

Mr. Pickwick, General Chairman and Member Pick- 

205 



206 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

wick Club, and Tracy Tupman,- Augustus Snodgrass, and 
Nathaniel Winkle, named by the association to further 
its interests, started on their journey. It may be well to 
remark concerning Mr. Pickwick, that he was a man of 
a benevolent and philosophical turn of mind; that occa- 
sionally, if not frequently, he would utter truths which 
might almost be maxims, one of the most profound of 
which was that fame is dear to the heart of every man; 
that he had so many noble characteristics that he would 
be deserving of kindest remembrances by everyone 
who had the pleasure of knowing him; and that 
the reading public of to-day, notwithstanding a genera- 
tion has intervened between his time and ours, enjoy his 
society quite as much, perhaps, as did those who met 
regularly in his club to discuss questions wise and other- 
wise. We will also say of him that he was very simple- 
hearted and very credulous. Almost at the outset of 
their journey, Mr. Pickwick and his companions made 
the acquaintance of Mr. Alfred Jingle, a young gentle- 
man of peculiar appearance and garb, whose conversation 
could perhaps be best described by saying that it con- 
sisted largely of dashes allowed by grammarians, inter- 
spersed here and there with facts, or words which 
represented facts. 

The traveling party met with no remarkable adven- 
tures on their journey for a while, though there was 
enough each day to interest them and to keep their lives 
from becoming humdrum and monotonous. They met a 
lean man, and a fat man, and a very fat boy; a bony 
woman, and one who was her opposite; a dismal man, 
and a cheerful one; they met people who were very poor, 
and many who were very comfortable; they saw and did 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 207 

things which were vastly amusing, Mr. Winkle perhaps, 
being so constituted, doing the most, unconsciously, to 
furnish amusement for others. He undertook to ride, 
and, instead, continued walking; he shot at a nest of 
rooks, but instead of killing the birds, almost succeeded 
in killing Mr. Tupman, one of his best friends. 

They stopped at Dingley Dell and became acquainted 
with the interesting family of Mr. Wardle; and here Mr. 
Tupman, being more susceptible, perhaps, to the charms 
of the gentler sex than the others, became deeply and 
truly in love with Miss Rachael, the spinster sister of Mr. 
Wardle. She had characteristics that distinguished her 
from any woman whom Mr. Tupman had ever before 
seen. Love has its own way of making itself known, 
and Mr. Tupman and Miss Rachael met one day in the 
garden, and the circumstances being favorable, he declared 
his love and admiration for her, which she coyly professed 
not to believe, saying softly, as she turned aside from his 
flatteries, — 

"Men are such deceivers." 

Mr. Tupman agreed with her, but was not disheartened 
at the remark. 

"Oh, Rachael! say you love me." 

"Mr. Tupman," she answered, with averted head, "I 
can hardly speak the words; but — but — you are not 
wholly indifferent to me." 

Mr. Jingle was also in the neighborhood of Dingley 
Dell and became acquainted with the Wardles. If Mr. 
Tupman valued Miss Rachael for her personal charms, 
Mr. Jingle learned to have regard for her from a mone- 
tary standpoint, as it was told him that she had certain 
values in that direction of which he was certainly 



208 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

destitute. Under the guise of friendship for Tupman, 
and w^ith professions that he was furthering his interests 
with Miss Rachael, he played false, and gaining her too 
credulous ear, he accused her lover of entertaining 
mercenary motives, and inspired her with jealousy, and 
then offered her his own devotion. He became her 
accepted lover; and, fearing opposition from Mr. Wardle, 
her brother, and Miss Rachael's aged mother, Mr. Jingle 
planned an elopement, and, less than a week afterwards, 
one evening when supper was called, it was found that 
Mr. Jingle and Miss Rachael were missing. Mr. Wardle 
and Mr. Pickwick started in pursuit without delay, and 
were soon following in the track of the lovers. If their 
flight was fast, Mr. Wardle's pursuit was fleet, and he 
might have overtaken them had it not been that when 
he was not more than a hundred yards behind them, the 
wheel of his chaise came off, and he and Mr. Pickwick 
were thrown unceremoniously to the ground. 

Mr. Jingle pulled up his chaise as soon as he saw that 
he and Miss Rachael were in no further danger. 

"Hello!" shouted the shameless Jingle; "anybody 
damaged! — elderly gentlemen — no light weights — dan- 
gerous work — very. . . '. . — drive on, boys." 

His pursuers readjusted themselves, and after sending 
off one of their boys for a fresh chaise and horses, set 
manfully on the walk. 

The chaise which contained Mr. Jingle and Miss 
Rachael stopped in front of the White Hart Inn, London, 
and the expectant bridegroom lost no time in securing 
his marriage license. 

"License, dearest of angels — give notice at the church 
— call you mine to-morrow," — said Mr. Jingle. 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 209 

***** 

"Can't — can't we be married before to-morrow morn- 
ing?" inquired Rachael. 

"Impossible — can't be — notice at the church — leave 
the license to-day — ceremony come off to-morrow." 

" I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us ! " 
said Rachael. 

" Discover — nonsense — too much shaken by the break- 
down — besides — extreme caution — gave up the post- 
chaise — walked on — took a hackney-coach — came to the 
Borough — last place in the world that he 'd look in — ha ! 
ha ! — capital notion that — very." 

Mr. Jingle had his license, and was arranging the 
preliminaries of the wedding, when another party came 
to the White Hart on a matter of business connected 
with him and Miss Rachael. Mr. Samuel Weller, boot- 
black and servant-in-waiting to the inn, a wag and a 
man of pronounced characteristics and peculiar form of 
expressing himself that was apropos to the subject in 
hand, was polishing a pair of boots, when the party, con- 
sisting of two plump gentlemen and a thin one, entered 
the yard and made some inquiries of him. 

"Pretty busy, eh?" said the little man. 

"Oh, werry well, sir," replied Sam, "we sha'n't be 
bankrupts, and we sha'n't make our fort'n's. We eats 
our biled mutton without capers, and don't care for 
horse-radish wen ve can get beef." 

"Ah, said the little man, "you're a wag, ain't you?" 

"My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint," 
said Sam; "it may be catching — I used to sleep with 
him." 

The little man was a lawyer whom Mr. Wardle (for 

14 



210 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

one of the fat men answered to his name) had engaged 
to settle matters, but with all his acumen Samuel Weller 
baffled him. Mr. Pickwick (for he was the third of the 
party) suggested that half a guinea might bring Mr. 
Weller to answer all the questions directly that were put 
to him. The little man objected. 

"Ah, Pickwick — really, Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, 
excuse me — I shall be happy to receive any private sug- 
gestions of yours, as amicus curiae, but you must see the 
impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this 
case, with such an ad captandum argument as the offer of 
half a guinea. Really, my dear sir, really," and the 
little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff, and 
looked very profound. 

By much questioning, Mr. Wardle found that Miss 
Rachael and Mr. Jingle were in the inn, and the irate 
brother and his friends walked unannounced into the room 
where they were, just as Mr. Jingle was showing the lady 
their license. Seeing the men, the possessor of it crum- 
pled up that precious paper and thrust it into his coat- 
pocket. Mr. Wardle was indignant. No one can say to 
what his feelings might have led him, had it not been for 
the presence of his legal friend. The lady in the case, 
after a fainting spell, refused positively to go back with 
her brother. As she was of age, — her brother declaring 
that she was fifty if she was an hour, — no force could be 
employed. The lawyer suggested a compromise, and the 
gentlemen withdrew to arrange it. On learning that 
Rachael had but a few hundred pounds till the death of 
her mother, who bade fair to last many years, the compro- 
mise for all that Mr. Jingle would lose by losing her was 
ended by the little man's handing the young man a 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. ■ 211 

check for one hundred and twenty pounds. Mr. Jingle, 
being that much ahead, made himself off in no unhappy 
mood. 

Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted 
lady return next day in the Muggleton heavy coach. 
Dimly and darkly had the somber shadows of a sum- 
mer's night fallen upon all around, when they again 
reached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to 
Manor Farm. Mr. Tupman could not bear his disap- 
pointment, and had left for another place while Mr. 
Pickwick was absent; learning which on his return, he 
advised with his two companions, and they decided to 
leave the hospitable home immediately. They journeyed 
to Rochester; after dining there and procuring the 
necessary information relative to the road, the three 
friends started on their way to Cobham. Having arrived 
there, they were directed to the Leather Bottle, a village 
ale-house, and were shown into a room where sat Mr. 
Tupman, evidently enjoying the dinner which he had 
ordered. It was while here in this neighborhood that 
our distinguished friend made a discovery, of which his 
friends have never ceased to boast. He came upon a 
stone which, to him, bore a strange inscription, and he 
purchased it of a cottager near whose door he found it. 
The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were 
straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of 
an inscription was clearly to be deciphered: — 

+ 
BILST 

UM 

PSHI 

S.M. 

ARK 



212 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

Mr. Pickwick was delighted, and he exulted over his 
treasure. He had attained one of the greatest objects of 
his ambition. Here was something which would bring 
joy to the heart of any antiquarian, and he, the chair- 
man of the Pickwick Club, had discovered and secured 
the treasure. He and his admiring followers returned 
immediately to London, Mr. Pickwick, usually so quiet 
and serene, having become very nervous and excited. 
It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that 
Mr. Pickwick lectured upon the discovery at a general 
club meeting, convened on the night succeeding 
their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious 
and erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscrip- 
tion; that heart-burnings and jealousies without number 
were created by rival controversies, which were penned 
upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick was elected an 
honorary member of seventeen native and foreign soci- 
eties for making the discovery. 

There was one man, who, with a mean desire to tarnish 
the luster of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually 
undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on his 
return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, 
that he had seen the man from whom the stone was 
purchased; that the man presumed the stone to be an- 
cient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the inscrip- 
tion — inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely 
carved by himself in an idle mood, and to display 
letters intended to bear neither more nor less than the 
simple construction of "Bill Stumps, his mark." In- 
stead of its tarnishing the name of Pickwick, however, 
the club signified their confidence in Mr. Pickwick, and 
their approbation of his opinion, by voting him a pair 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 



213 



of gold spectacles, while the offending member was 
ejected from the club. 

Mr. Pickwick took apartments at Mrs. Bard ell's, in Gos- 
well Street, the lady being a widow with but one child, a 
small boy, who spent most of his time in the neighboring 
pavements and gutters. It was in Mrs. Bard ell's house that 
Mr. Pickwick brought on a scene most unexpected, and not 
consistent at all with his character. He and Mrs. Bar- 




She had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms.' 



dell were alone, when he astonished her by asking, " Do 
you think it 's a much greater expense to keep two people, 
than to keep one?" Mrs. Bardell misunderstood the 
question, or rather, understood it in a way which she would 
have favored; and, imagining that she saw a matrimonial 
twinkle in Mr. Pickwick's eyes, she replied, "La, Mr. 
Pickwick, what a question ! " 



214 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

Mr. Pickwick was not one who was lucid in making 
statements, and what he further said mystified Mrs. 
Bardell so much that she understood him as making her 
an offer of marriage. She became very demonstrative in 
her affection for him^-so much so indeed that, when 
Master Bardell returned, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. 
Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, she had fainted in Mr. Pick- 
wick's arms. When Mrs. Bardell had recovered, and 
had been led downstairs, Mr. Pickwick explained that 
he had merely intended to announce to her his inten- 
tion of keeping a man servant, whereupon she had fallen 
into the extraordinary paroxysm in which they had 
found her. 

Perhaps Mr. Pickwick had seen some latent good 
qualities in Mr. Samuel Weller during his brief sojourn 
at the White Hart, for he had decided to secure the 
services of this gentleman, if possible, and attach him to 
himself and his companions in travel. He had, previous 
to his question of Mrs. Bardell, sent for Samuel to come 
and see him, and the latter was now waiting below stairs 
for him. The terms being satisfactory to all concerned, 
Samuel was engaged and became identified with the 
great club by having his gray coat ornamented with the 
"P. C." button, and taking orders from the chairman of 
the P. C. 

Mr. Pickwick took a great interest in politics; and 
when he again pursued his journey he watched the 
contest that was taking place between the candidates for 
Parliament in the opposing parties, the Buffs and the 
Blues, in Eatanswill. It would be superfluous to say that 
his man Samuel could tell him of many ways in which 
votes were made or lost by those acquainted with the 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 215 

trickery of politics, of all of which Mr. Pickwick, being 
an honorable and upright gentleman, was supremely 
ignorant. Very extraordinary statements did Samuel 
make, all of which Mr. Pickwick, being the soul of 
truthfulness himself, believed without a doubt. So great 
a man as Mr. Pickwick could not remain in obscurity in 
Eatanswill. Sam one morning handed him a card upon 
which was engraved, "Mrs. Leo Hunter," stating that a 
gentleman was waiting for him in the drawing-room. 
When Mr. Pickwick descended, the gentleman greeted 
him with profound respect. 

" We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your 
antiquarian discussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo 
Hunter — my wife, sir; Jam Mr. Leo Hunter" — the 
stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick 
would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that 
he remained perfectly calm, he proceeded to tell him 
of what a remarkable woman Mrs. Hunter was, stating 
that all of her acquaintances were people distinguished, 
that she doted on and wrote poetry, and that she 
desired the honor of Mr. Pickwick's company the fol- 
lowing morning to a fancy-dress breakfast, given to some 
who had made themselves celebrated by their works and 
talents. 

Mr. Pickwick went to the breakfast in the clothes he 
looked upon as suitable for a man of his age and stand- 
ing, but his companions were attired in clothes supposed 
to resemble those worn by the characters whom they 
represented. Our distinguished friend was interested 
and entertained by the hostess and her guests, and noth- 
ing seemed wanting to make the party complete, when 
Mr. Hunter called out, "My dear, here's Mr. Charles 



216 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

Fitz-Marshall." Mrs. Hunter was delighted, and asked 
that room might be made to allow Mr. Fitz-Marshall to 
pass. 

"Coming, my dear ma'am," cried a voice, "as quick as 
I can — crowds of people — full room — hard work — very." 

Mr. Pickwick was astonished, and stared at Mr. Tup- 
man, who was as much astonished as Mr. Pickwick. 

"Ah!" cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way 
among the last five-and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, 
and Charles the Seconds that remained between him and 
the table, "regular mangle — Baker's patent — not a crease 
in my coat, after all this squeezing — might have 'got up 
my linen,' as I came along — ha! ha! not a bad idea, 
that — queer thing to have it mangled when it 's upon 
one, though — trying process — very." 

With these broken words, a young man dressed as a 
naval officer made his way up to the table, and presented 
to the astonished Pickwickians the identical form and 
features of Mr. Alfred Jingle. 

The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's 
proffered hand, when his eyes encountered the indignant 
orbs of Mr. Pickwick. 

" Hallo ! " said Jingle. " Quite forgot — no directions to 
postilion — give 'em at once — back in a minute," and he 
disappeared. 

"Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am," said the 
excited Mr. Pickwick, rising from his seat, "who that 
young man is, and where he resides ? " 



"At Bury St. Edmonds, not many miles from here. 
But dear me, Mr. Pickwick, you are not going to leave 



THE PICKWICK PAPEKS. 217 

us; surely, Mr. Pickwick, you cannot think of going so 
soon." 

But Mr. Pickwick could not be detained, and he and 
Sam, perched on the outside of a stage-coach, were soon 
in pursuit of Alfred Jingle. The long ride afforded a good 
opportunity for conversation. "I worn't always a boots, 
sir," said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head. "I wos 
a waginer's boy once . . . when I was first pitched neck 
and crop into the world to play at leap-frog with its 
troubles. ... I was a carrier's boy at startin': then a 
waginer's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm a 
genTm'n's servant. I shall be a gen'l'm'n myself one of 
these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a 
summer-house in the back garden. Who knows? I 
shouldn't be surprised, for one. . . . Afore I took up 
with the waginer, I had unfurnished lodgin's for a fort- 
night. . . . Yes — the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. 
Fine sleeping-place — within ten minutes' walk of all the 
public offices — only if there is any objection to it, it is 
that the sitivation 's rayther too airy. I see some queer 
sights there. . . . Young beggars, male and female, as 
hasn't made a rise in their profession, takes up their 
quarters there sometimes; but it's generally the worn- 
out, starving, houseless creeturs as rolls themselves in 
the dark corners o' them lonesome places — poor creeturs 
as ain't up to the twopenny rope. . . . Wen the lady 
and gen'l'm'n as keeps the Hot-el first begun business, 
they used to make the beds on the floor; but this 
wouldn't do at no price, 'cos instead o' taking a moderate 
twopenn'orth o' sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half 
the day. So now they has two ropes, 'bout six foot apart, 
and three from the floor, which goes right down the 



218 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, 
stretched across 'em. . . At six o'clock every mornin', 
they lets go the ropes at one end, and down falls all the 
lodgers. 'Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, 
they get up wery quietly, and walk away! Beg you, 
pardon, sir," said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his 
loquacious discourse. " Is this Bury St. Edmonds ? " 

Mr. Pickwick failed to meet Mr, Jingle, who wisely 
eluded him. On his return to his friends, he found a 
letter informing him that Mrs. Bardell had commenced 
action against him for breach of promise, laying her 
damages at fifteen hundred pounds. He was astonished ; 
his friends were dumbfounded. There was no escaping 
the law, and Mr. Pickwick ordered Sam to secure two 
places on the coach going to London. Arriving in the 
city, Mr. Pickwick went immediately to the office of 
Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, Mrs. Bardell's attorneys, and 
inquired for those gentlemen. Dodson was not in his 
office and Fogg was engaged. He waited in the office till 
Mr. Fogg was disengaged and he could see him. Accord- 
ingly, when that gentleman sent for him, Mr. Pickwick 
went up stairs, leaving Sam below. Mr. Dodson soon 
returned to the office, and Mr. Pickwick had to face both 
of them. Mr. Pickwick was indignant and excited and 
used plain language, none of which was lost by Dodson 
and Fogg and their obliging clerks. Mr. Pickwick's 
wrath might have led him into more difficulty, but at a 
critical moment Sam mounted the stairs, and seized his 
master by the arm. 

" You just come avay," said Mr. Weller. " Battledoor 
and shuttlecock's a wery good game, vhen you ain't the 
shuttlecock and two lawyers the battled oors, in wich case 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 219 

it gets too excitin' to be pleasant. Come avay, sir. If 
you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, 
come out into the court and blow up me; but it's rayther 
too expensive work to be carried on here." 

Mr. Pickwick and his valet stopped at a public place 
on their way to see Mr. Perker, the little lawyer with 
whom Mr. Pickwick had made acquaintance in the affair 
of Jingle and Miss Wardle, to secure his services, and 
unexpectedly met Mr. Weller, Senior. Mr. Pickwick 
could not but be impressed with one remark among 
many which the old gentleman made to his son in 
answer to questions about home and Sam's second 
mother. 

" I 've done it once too often, Sammy ; I 've done it once 
too often. Take example by your father, my boy, and be 
wery careful o' widders all your life, specially if they 've 
kept a public-house, Sammy." 

Mr. Pickwick, before the suit of Bardell vs. Pickwick 
came off, met with experiences peculiar to himself — 
experiences which one acquainted with the ways of the 
world would have avoided. Sam was very wise when he 
said to his master, — 

"You rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir, 
wen your judgment goes out a-wisitin'." 

Mr. Pickwick was joined by his three Pickwickian 
friends, ere he reached London to make arrangements to 
meet the proceedings of the suit against him. Sam's 
services were invaluable. He saw through the sharp 
practices of Dodson and Fogg, and prepared his master 
for them. An interview with Mr. Perker, next day, more 
than confirmed Mr. Weller's statement; and Mr. Pick- 
wick was fain to prepare for his Christmas visit to 



220 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

Dingley Dell, with the pleasant anticipation that some 
two or three months afterwards, an action brought 
against him for damages sustained by reason of a breach 
of promise of marriage would be publicly tried in the 
Court of Common Pleas. 

The Pickwickians went to Dingley Dell; Mr. Weller, on 
leave of absence, visited his father on Christmas, anxious 
to atone for all past remissness. There was no dread of 
the law immediately before them, — that was several 
weeks in the future, — and each party gave itself up to 
Christmas cheer and merriment. But time moves on, 
and so do lawsuits, dreary though they be. The day had 
arrived for Mr. Pickwick's. He and Mr. Perker sat 
talking over the case. "Ten minutes past nine!" said the 
little man, looking at his watch. " Time we were off, my 
dear sir. . . . You had better ring for a coach, my dear 
sir, or we shall be rather late." Mr. Pickwick called for a 
coach, and he and Mr. Perker and the three Pickwickians 
and Sam were soon on the way to Guildhall. At the 
hour appointed, "Bardell and Pickwick" was called. 
The usual forms in law cases were observed. There 
were witnesses for and against both plaintiff and defend- 
ant; there were more against than for Mr. Pickwick, as 
the circumstances in which even his friends had found 
him with Mrs. Bardell that memorable day were surely 
against him; and Mr. Pickwick was found guilty. The 
jury, being merciful in amount of damages, put it down 
at just half the sum for which she had sued. Speechless 
with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be 
led by his solicitor and friends to the door, and there 
assisted into a hackney-coach which had been fetched for 
the purpose by the ever- watchful Sam "Weller, Sam had 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 221 

put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the 
box, when he felt a gentle touch upon his shoulder. 
There stood his father, who said, in warning accents, " I 
know'd what 'ud come o' this here mode o' doin' bisness. 
Oh, Sammy, Sammy, vy worn't there a alleybi ! " 

Mr. Pickwick declared that he would not pay the costs, 
and when told by Mr. Perker that the next term of court 
would not be for two months, he determined to enjoy 
himself until the opposing party in the suit would begin 
the legal process of execution against him. He and his 
friends decided that they would go to Bath for recreation 
and improvement, and went accordingly. On the way 
thither the Pickwickian party met with nothing remark- 
able, though, according to their chairman's custom, they 
entered into conversation with whomsoever they had 
opportunity, and in this way had fine chances of advanc- 
ing in character study. As the chairman contemplated 
remaining for at least two months at Bath, he made 
arrangements to that effect, and began taking the waters 
systematically, drinking a quarter of a pint before break- 
fast and a like measure afterwards; and after every fresh 
quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most 
solemn and emphatic terms, that he felt a great deal 
better: whereat his friends were very much delighted, 
though they had not been previously aware that there 
was anything the matter with him. 

After they had been there several days, one John 
Smauker asked of Sam, "Have you drank the waters, 
Mr. Weller?" 

Sam replied that he had, once. 

"What did you think of 'em, sir?" 

"I thought they wos particklery unpleasant," replied 
Sam. 



222 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

"Ah," said Mr. John Smauker, "you disliked the killi- 
beate taste, perhaps ? " 

"I don't know much about that 'ere," said Sam. "I 
thought they 'd a wery strong flavor o' warm flat-irons." 

"That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller," observed Mr. 
John Smauker, contemptuously. At Bath Mr. Winkle 
fell in love, the lady being Miss Arabella Allen, and the 
course of his love did not flow smoothly for either party 
concerned. There were numerous hindrances, and Mr. 
Winkle was almost desperate. Mr. Pickwick, who saw 
what was going on, took Sam into his confidence relative 
to the affair, and the latter had a stolen interview with 
the young lady and presented to her the desperate condi- 
tion of Mr. Winkle in such language that she was con- 
vinced something must be done to help him, and she 
gave him to understand that possibly she might be in the 
garden next evening. When Sam reported to Mr. Pick- 
wick, this gentleman declared that he would be a party 
to the interview on the following day. He made all 
needful preparations, and in addition provided himself 
with a dark lantern, which he expected to be of great 
service to them. 

Miss Allen's servant, Mary, drew near; soon after, the 
footsteps of the lady herself were heard. It was just 
then that the dark lantern very nearly exposed the whole 
party, but its owner finally succeeded in closing it. Mr. 
Pickwick decided that his age and experience entitled 
him to address the young lady first. Sam bent his body 
and Mr. Pickwick mounted it, and with Mr. Winkle's 
assistance, Mr. Pickwick, holding on to the top of the 
wall, contrived to bring his spectacles just above the 
level of the coping. He addressed Miss Arabella pater- 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 223 

nally and tenderly, which affected her to tears. The inter- 
view might have been indefinitely long had not Mr. Pick- 
wick made a false step on Sam's shoulder, which brought 
him suddenly to the ground. He left the rest of the inter- 
view to Mr. Winkle and Sam, and he went out into the 
lane to keep watch. Had he left the lantern at home, 
had he never bought it, all might have gone well; but 
in adjusting it a powerful light was thrown through the 
air, and a scientific gentleman, who was pursuing his 
investigations, happened to see it. He saw the light 
several times, and, thinking it was some wonderful elec- 
trical display, started out to investigate. The consequence 
was the precipitate flight of Mr. Pickwick and those who 
were talking over the garden wall. 

The two months were up, and the Pickwick party left 
Bath for London. They obtained comfortable quarters, 
and were calmly waiting for what was before them. One 
morning Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when he 
was roused by Sam and a visitor entering his room. The 
latter told him that he had got an execution against him, 
at the suit of Bardell, and he must go with him. He 
threw his card on the table, and it bore the name of the 
sheriff's deputy. Mr. Pickwick, by reason of his own act 
— his obstinacy in refusing to settle with Fogg and Dod- 
son, was in the debtor's prison — Mr. Pickwick the re- 
nowned, the philanthropic, — and he philosophically sub- 
mitted to the unavoidable, and quietly made an inven- 
tory of his surroundings and fellow prisoners. Among 
the latter he recognized Alfred Jingle and his servant 
in more prosperous days, Job Trotter. Samuel Weller 
was true to his master; he was sympathetic; he was 
strategic. He could not bear the thought that Mr. Pick- 



224 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

wick should be left in the prison without him. He sought 
his father, and stated the case. Mr. Weller, Senior, grasped 
the situation. 

"He goes in rayther raw, Sammy," said Mr. Weller 
metaphorically, "and he'll come out done so ex-ceedin' 
brown that his most formiliar friends won't know him. 
Roast pigeon's nothin' to it, Sammy." 

Father and son studied how to aid the prisoner, and 
soon devised a plan. Sam was to borrow twenty-five 
pounds of his father, and was to refuse payment when 
asked for it. He was to be arrested and thrown into 
prison till the payment of said debt, which it was agreed 
would not be till Mr. Pickwick had paid the one for 
which he was imprisoned. Sam hoped that his father 
would not be long out of possession of his money. 

Mr. Pickwick was surprised to see Sam return to the 
prison; he was surprised to hear that he was a prisoner 
for debt; and he was very much surprised to hear him 
say, "Yes, for debt, sir; and the man as put me in 'ull 
never let me out till you go yourself." He was touched 
also very deeply by this evidence of Sam's attachment to 
him, in voluntarily placing himself in a debtor's prison 
for an indefinite period. He pondered the subject long 
and well, but he had said that he would stay in the 
prison and he adhered to his determination, and for 
three long months he remained shut up all day, only 
going out at night to breathe the air and look upon the 
sky above him. His health was suffering from his close 
confinement, but he would take no advice from either 
his lawyer or his friends. 

But the case of Bardell and Pickwick was to assume a 
new phase. After the trial, Dodson and Fogg, sharp 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 225 

practitioners that they were, had obtained from Mrs. 
Bardell a cognovit for the amount of the costs, only as a 
matter of form, to be sure, and Mr. Pickwick choosing 
rather to suffer imprisonment than come to a settlement, 
they had secured an execution on cognovit against Mrs. 
Bardell, and she, very unexpectedly, was a prisoner as well 
as Mr. Pickwick. Sam Weller, acute and long-sighted 
Sam, saw release ahead for Mr. Pickwick, and sent 
immediately for Mr. Perker. On entering the prison, the 
latter received a look of intelligence from Sam, to intimate 
to him that he was not to tell his master that he had 
been sent for, which Mr. Perker wisely acted on. Sam 
withdrew from the room, and Mr. Perker proceeded. He 
told his client that no one could rescue Mrs. Bardell from 
prison but himself, and that this could only be done by 
paying the costs of both plaintiff and defendant; and 
further, that Mrs. Bardell had voluntarily signified to 
him that she would never have brought about the suit 
had not Dodson and Fogg fomented and encouraged it. 
The lawyer appealed to Mr. Pickwick with all the 
eloquence he could master, trying to show him that for a 
very small amount, only one hundred and fifty pounds, 
he himself, his faithful servant, and Mrs. Bardell could 
all be free and restored to their former healthy pursuits 
and amusements. He finished by saying, " I wait here 
most patiently for your answer." 

What Mr. Pickwick would have done, will never be 
known, as just at this moment Sam returned, bringing in 
Mr. Winkle and Miss Arabella, or, as Mr. Winkle, drop- 
ping on his knees, said, "Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, my 
dear friend, pardon!" Before the young bride had left 
the room she had done what all others had failed to do — 

15 



226 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

Mr. Pickwick was argued out of all previous determina- 
tions to remain where he was, and he actually told his 
friends that they might do with him as they pleased. 
At three o'clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last 
look at his little room, and made his way, as well as he 
could, through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly 
forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the 
lodge steps. Alas! how many sad and unhappy beings 
had he left behind ! 

We might tell of the journey that Mr. Pickwick and 
Samuel Weller made the next day to the house of Mr. 
Ben Allen, Arabella's only brother, to reconcile him to 
her marriage to Mr. Winkle, and of his success; of how 
he and Mr. Allen, attended by Robert Sawyer, who had, 
from his earliest years, had aspirations for Arabella's hand, 
undertook to go to Birmingham to confer with Mr. 
Winkle, Senior, in regard to his son's marriage and settle- 
ment, and whose conference with that gentleman was not 
at all satisfactory; we might tell of the long, dreary ride 
back to London, and of how on the way Mr. Pickwick 
met friends whose company he had enjoyed but a few 
months before, as well as others who were strangers to him, 
and that almost as soon as, or very soon after, Mr. Pickwick 
and Sam settled down in rooms, and were making them- 
selves comfortable, old Mr. Wardle visited them and 
told of the little love affair between Mr. Snodgrass 
and his own daughter, Emily; and we might tell how 
Arabella Winkle was one day surprised by a call from a 
little, old, business-like man who very much mystified 
and embarrassed her, and who proved to be her father- 
in-law, and who received her and her husband back into 
favor. If we would tell all this, it would be the truth, 



THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 227 

and yet not half that might be told of the Pickwickians; 
but we can tell best all that remains to be told of Mr. 
Pickwick and his friends in the language of the immortal 
chronicler of the Pickwick Club: — 

"For a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. 
Winkle from Birmingham, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Wel- 
ler were from home all day long, only returning just in 
time for dinner, and then wearing an air of mystery and 
importance quite foreign to their natures. It was evident 
that very grave and eventful proceedings were on foot; 
but various surmises were afloat, respecting their precise 
character. ... At length, when the brains of the whole 
party had been racked, for six long days, by unavailing 
speculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr. Pick- 
wick should be called upon to explain his conduct. . . . 
With this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to 
dinner; . . . and the decanters having been twice sent 
round, opened the business. 

"'We are all anxious to know/ said the old gentleman, 
' what we have done to offend you, and to induce you to 
desert us and devote yourself to these solitary walks.' 

"'Are you?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'It is singular enough 
that I had intended to volunteer a full explanation this 
very day. . . All the changes that have taken place among 
us . . . rendered it necessary for me to think, soberly and 
at once, upon my future plans. I determined on retiring 
to some quiet, pretty neighborhood, in the vicinity of 
London ; I saw a house which exactly suited my fancy. 
... It is fully prepared for my reception, and I intend 
entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to 
spend many quiet years in peaceful retirement, cheered 
through life by the society of my friends, and followed in 



228 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 

death by their affectionate remembrance. . . . Sam 
accompanies me there. . . . I have communicated, both 
personally and by letter, with the club, acquainting them 
with my intention. During our long absence, it has 
suffered much from internal dissensions; and the with- 
drawal of my name, coupled with this and other 
circumstances, has occasioned its dissolution. The Pick- 
wick Club exists no longer. ... I shall never regret 
having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing 
with different varieties and shades of human character, 
frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared to 
many. Nearly the whole of my previous life having 
been devoted to business and the pursuit of wealth, 
numerous scenes of which I had no previous conception 
have dawned upon me — I hope to the enlargement of my 
mind, and the improvement of my understanding. If I 
have done but little good, I trust I have done less harm, 
and that none of my adventures will be other than a 
source of amusing and pleasant recollection to me in the 
decline of life. God bless you all.' 



"Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments 
of unmixed happiness, of which, if we seek them, there 
are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence here. 
There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are 
stronger in the contrast." 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



Principal Characters. 

Esther, The Heroine. 
Miss Barbary, Godmother to Esther. 
Mrs. Rachael, their Servant. 
Mr. Jarndyce, Esther's Guardian. 
Kenge and Carboy, Solicitors for Mr. Jarndyce. 
Miss Ada Clare, bosom Friend of Esther, afterward Mrs. Richard 
Carstone. 

Sir Leicester Dedlock. 

Lady Dedlock. 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, their Solicitor. 

Richard Carstone, interested in the case of Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce. 



230 



BLEAK HOUSE 

By Charles Dickens. 



ESTHER SUMMERSON S STORY. 

There was a mystery connected with my birth which 
gave me many an hour of anxious thought, when, as a 
little girl in my godmother's house, I wondered often who 
my father was, who my mother could have been (that 
was, supposing I had ever had a father and mother, which 
I thought probable), where I had come from, and who I 
really was. I pondered these questions, but they were 
unanswered for many a year. I was brought up in the 
country by my godmother, — at least I only knew her as 
such while she lived. She was a good woman; I knew 
that, because she was such a strict church-goer. She 
never missed any of the services when she was able to 
leave the house. This impressed itself indelibly on my 
mind. I longed to be as good as godmother, but, try as 
hard as I would, I never felt satisfied. She was so very 
good that I thought the badness of other people made her 
frown all her life. I was in such a habit of contrasting 
her goodness with my own imperfections, that I think that 
must have been why we were never drawn more closely 
to each other than we were. I repeat, I think that must 
have been the reason, as my childish mind could think 
of no other. 

Our only servant, Mrs. Rachael, was almost as reserved 
as godmother, if not more so, and I could not go to her 

231 



232 BLEAK HOUSE. 

with questions about myself any more easily than to god- 
mother. I seemed to be a child set apart from all other 
children — indeed, from everything but my darling doll — 
by the very goodness of my grave guardian, who, I really 
thought, would have been as beautiful as an angel if she 
only sometimes would have smiled. My birthdays were 
the most melancholy days in the whole year. I can 
never forget one that I spent in my early home. Dinner 
was over, and godmother and I were sitting alone before 
the fire. She looked at me so sadly and with such 
earnestness that I could refrain no longer, and cried: 
"0, dear godmother, tell me, pray do tell me, did 
mamma die on my birthday ? . . . 0, do pray tell 
me something of her. . . . Why am I so different from 
other children, and why is it my fault?" 

I was so excited, I was so intensely in earnest, that I 
knelt before her and begged for an answer. She raised 
me, stood me before her and said, coldly, and in a low 
voice which sounded in my ears for many a year: — 

"Your mother, Esther, is your disgrace, and you were 
hers. The time will come — and soon enough — when you 
will understand this better, and will feel it too, as no one 
save a woman can. I have forgiven her," she added, "the 
wrong she did to me, and I say no more of it, though it 
was greater than you will ever know — than anyone will 
ever know, but I, the sufferer. . . . Forget your mother, 
and leave all other people to forget her who will do her 
unhappy child that greatest kindness." 

I felt almost frozen by what she said, and started to 
leave the room, when she added : " Submission, self-denial, 
diligent work, are the preparations for a life begun with 
such a shadow on it. You are different from other chil- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



233 



dren, Esther, because you were not born, like them, in 
common sinfulness and wrath. You are set apart." 

I went to bed with my doll hugged tightly to my breast, 
and cried myself to sleep. It was so terrible to me to 
think that at no time had I ever brought joy to anyone's 
heart. After that night I felt the distance between my 
godmother and myself more than ever. One afternoon 
when I came home from school, I found a stranger — a 






J %'Wf/ 






•r- g# jpi 




"For when I was introduced to him, he put on his glasses, to see me the 
better." 



large, important-looking gentleman — in our parlor, and 
evidently I was in some way concerned in his visit; for 
when I was introduced to him, he put on his glasses, to 
see me the better, I thought, and said, "Come here, my 
dear! " and said, "Ah! " and "Yes! " when I obeyed him; 
and when he was through with his scrutiny, he looked at 
godmother with a peculiar nod, upon which she told 



234 BLEAK HOUSE. 

me that I might now go upstairs. Two years afterwards, 
godmother died very suddenly, and on the day after her 
funeral this same gentleman appeared. 

"My name is Kenge," he said; "you may remember 
it, my child; Kenge and Carboy, Lincoln's Inn." 

From what he said to Mrs. Rachael I learned that my 
godmother, whom he spoke of as Miss Barbary, was also 
my aunt, and I exclaimed, — 

"My aunt, sir!" 

"It really is of no use carrying on a deception, when 
no object is to be gained by it," said Mr. Kenge, smoothly. 
"Aunt in fact, though not in law. Don't distress your- 
self ! Don't weep ! Don't tremble ! Mrs. Rachael, our 
young friend has no doubt heard of — the — a — Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce." 

He was amazed to find me utterly ignorant that there 
was such a wonder in existence as the great Chancery 
Court, in which the suit of Jarndyce and Jarndyce had 
lain for years. It took a great many words, and to me 
unmeaning ones, to tell me what Mr. Kenge wanted of 
me. He finally told me that a Mr. Jarndyce, whom he 
represented as a very humane, though at the same time a 
very singular, man, had for some reason offered to put 
me in a first-rate school, where, while I would be receiv- 
ing a good education, I would also have every comfort 
and attention that I needed; and all the restrictions that 
were imposed were, that I would not leave the school at 
any time without first notifying him, and that I would 
study diligently, as I should ultimately be dependent on 
my own exertions. 

All the arrangements being completed, one week from 
that day I left the only home I had ever known for 



BLEAK HOUSE. 235 

Greenleaf, the boarding-school kept by the two Misses 
Donny, twin sisters. 

One of the sisters met me when the coach which 
carried me to them stopped at its destination, and I was 
put into her carriage and borne away. 

"Everything is ready for you, Esther," said Miss Donny; 
" and the scheme of your pursuits has been arranged in 
exact accordance with the wishes of your guardian, Mr. 
Jamdyce." I was quite bewildered, and asked Miss Donny 
if she was acquainted with Mr. Jarndyce, and was told 
that there was no personal acquaintance, and that she 
knew of him only through his solicitors, Messrs. Kenge 
and Carboy, of London. 

What a sweet, lovely life I lived for the next six years ! 
Every birthday, even, was a gladsome day, and brought 
to me many tokens of affectionate remembrance, and on 
none of them was I ever told that it would have been 
better for me never to have been born. I remained in 
school till I was twenty years old. One dreary November 
morning (and yet no morning had real dreariness in it 
for me), I was surprised to learn through Kenge and Carboy 
that my guardian, whom I did not know, was about to 
receive into his house, under an order from the Court of 
Chancery, a ward of the Court in the case of Jarndyce 
and Jarndyce, and desired my services as her companion, 
and asked that I meet a messenger whom they would 
appoint, on the following Monday morning. As it was 
my guardian's wish, and there were but five days left me 
with the Misses Donny and my darling school compan- 
ions, every one of whom I loved on account of her endear- 
ing qualities, there was so much to be seen to and done 
that the morning when I was to leave it all came before 



236 BLEAK HOUSE. 

any of us were ready for it. I went out from Greenleaf 
with blessings on my head and future life from all who 
had known me. 

On reaching London, I was told that I was to go 
before the Lord Chancellor — for what, I could not im- 
agine. On meeting Mr. Kenge, he took me into a room 
near the court room, where standing before a great roaring 
fire I saw the beautiful girl, Miss Ada Clare, whose life 
and mine were henceforth to be linked together. By her 
side, and in conversation with her, was a young gentle- 
man who I learned was her distant cousin, Mr. Richard 
Carstone, who was also interested like herself in the case 
of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and who was to go with us to 
Bleak House, the home of Mr. John Jarndyce, my 
guardian. 

" Miss Ada," said Mr. Kenge, " this is Miss Summerson." 
She came to me with a sweet smile of welcome, and her 
hand extended, and from that moment we seemed to 
understand and love each other. The business connected 
with the case of transferring Ada to the care of Mr. 
Jarndyce was soon attended to, and we were ready to 
take our departure from the building, when we were 
surprised by the appearance of one of the most curious- 
looking little old women whom it has ever been my 
fortune to meet. Her talk and actions were so strange 
that Richard whispered to us that she was mad. She 
caught the word " mad." 

"Right! Mad, young gentleman," she returned so 
quickly that he was quite abashed. "I was a ward 
myself. I was not mad at that time," courtesying low, 
and smiling between every little sentence. "I had youth, 
and hope; I believe, beauty. It matters very little now. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 237 

Neither of the three served, or saved me. ... I expect 
a judgment, shortly." She said much more in the 
same strain, till she was interrupted by the appearance of 
Mr. Kenge, whom she seemed to know quite familiarly. 
We remembered her quite well afterwards. 

Mr. Jarndyce had arranged for us to spend that night at 
Mrs. Jellyby 's, who, Mr. Kenge informed us, was quite well- 
known, as she possessed remarkable strength of character 
and devoted herself entirely to the public. Mr. Guppy, 
clerk to Kenge and Carboy, conducted us thither. We 
were not favorably impressed with Mrs. Jellyby or her 
household arrangements ; we pitied her children, we 
pitied her husband, and we could not but think that if, 
instead of spending all her time in schemes for the coloni- 
zation of Africa, in which she was so interested just then, 
she would direct a part at least of it and some of her energy 
to the improvement of her family, it would be much better 
for her, for that family, and for all parties concerned. We 
felt much sympathy for Caddy, the oldest daughter, who 
was out of sorts with the family government and her 
mother's ideas, and was a miserable, unhappy girl in con- 
sequence of the disorderly life which they all led as a 
result of her mother's neglect of them. Next morning 
we were up early and went out before breakfast for a walk, 
Caddy accompanying us. We encountered the little old 
woman of the day before, who introduced us to her land- 
lord, Mr. Krook, quite as singular a character as herself, 
we judged. If the old woman had talked of Chancery, 
Mr. Krook was a good match for her, and he seemed very 
familiar with the Jarndyce suit and most of the parties 
concerned. 

" Quite an adventure for a morning in London ! " said 



238 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Richard, with a sigh. "Ah, cousin, cousin, it's a weary 
word, this Chancery! . . . At all events, Ada, Chancery 
will work none of its bad influence on us. We have 
happily been brought together, thanks to our good kins- 
man, and it can't divide us now! " 

"Never, I hope, cousin Richard!" said Ada, gently. 

We left the city and were delighted with the green 
country beyond. We traveled all day, reaching St. 
Albans, near to which town Bleak House was to be found. 
Mr. Jarndyce stood in the door to welcome us. 

"Ada, my love, Esther, my dear, you are welcome. I 
rejoice to see you! Rick, if I had a hand to spare at 
present, I would give it you ! " 

Such a delightful home as we found Bleak House — 
bleak only in name — to be ! Such a delightful friend as 
we had in Mr. Jarndyce ! Such delightful times as we had 
each day ! We found a strange character who came and 
went in the house as he saw fit — Mr. Skimpole, who pro- 
fessed to be somewhat of an artist and something of a 
musician, and though he was very peculiar, we enjoyed 
him because he was different from anyone else whom we 
had ever met. 



While Esther is becoming acquainted with her new 
friends and her new duties, let us leave Hertfordshire, 
the part of England where she is to make her home, 
and go to Lincolnshire, and look upon the stately 
home of Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock. No mightier 
baronet was there in the country than Sir Leicester, 
and no more beautiful or haughty woman could be 
found in town or country than Lady Dedlock, whose 
husband idolized her. He had married her for love, 



BLEAK HOUSE. 239 

which had never abated one jot since his marriage- 
day. It was whispered that she had come from a 
common family, but Sir Leicester had so long and proud 
a lineage that there was enough for both of them, and 
they could not have made use of any more. 

Lady Dedlock divided her time between London, 
where she had a house befitting her rank and beauty, 
and the country home, with frequent trips to Paris, to rid 
and rest her from the strain of company and the cease- 
less round of pleasure with which she was surrounded. 
Mr. Tulkinghorn, attorney-at-law, was the legal adviser 
in the Dedlock family, and he was the only person whom 
Lady Dedlock seemed to dread; and yet, when he was 
near, she made strong efforts to hide her uneasiness, and 
her hauteur generally carried her through. Lady Ded- 
lock had a secret, and Mr. Tulkinghorn was a shrewd old 
gentleman, whom long practice in the mysteries which 
the law unravels had made sharp and penetrating. 
Aside from being adviser to Sir Leicester and Lady Ded- 
lock, he was private legal adviser to Lady Dedlock in 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and his business relations made 
him a frequent visitor at Chesney Wold, the Dedlock 
country home, and he was also admitted to their town 
house at any hour he called. He was interested in Lady 
Dedlock aside from her claims in the great Chancery suit 
— he had learned something about her lately; he sus- 
pected her secret, and had agents at work who were 
helping him ferret it out. Mr. Tulkinghorn was gener- 
ally successful in his undertakings; he hoped to be suc- 
cessful in this affair concerning Lady Dedlock' s early 
life, though he had to proceed slowly and cautiously in 
obtaining facts. 



240 BLEAK HOUSE. 

Over Mr. Krook's little shop, in a low, dingy room, 
might "Have been seen, day after day for many weeks in 
succession, a gaunt, sad-eyed man, leaning over an old 
broken desk and copying in a most peculiar hand legal 
documents that had been brought to him through Mr. 
Snagsby, a law-stationer, who served Mr. Tulkinghorn and 
others in various ways for a reasonable consideration. 
Mr. Krook's lodger would give no one his name; he told 
Snagsby and others to call him Nemo — Latin for "no one." 
He was a prodigious worker — could do more work in a 
given time, as Snagsby affirmed, than any other copyist 
he had ever employed. Mr. Tulkinghorn desired to see 
this man, and went in person to Mr. Krook's and asked 
to be shown to Nemo's room. He knocked, and, receiving 
no answer, opened the door and went in. 

The room was so dark that he had to grope his way 
into it. On a dirty, low bed he saw the object of his 
search. The room was vilely dirty, as was its sleeping 
occupant; but the odor which greeted Mr. Tulkinghorn 
was so vile, so sickeningly vile with the fumes of opium, 
that he hesitated about remaining. But business de- 
manded it, and he touched the sleeper. There was no 
response. Nemo, who also had a secret, and perhaps 
had a history, was dead — dead from the drug of which 
he was the unhappy victim. As no one could prove that 
he meant suicide in taking it, the jury rendered the ver- 
dict of "Accidental death," and he was borne to his 
resting-place in an obscure graveyard not far off. His 
ragged clothes and an old portmanteau were his only 
effects, and from the contents of the latter nothing could 
be gleaned to tell who Nemo was. But Nemo's death 
gave Mr. Tulkinghorn a clue to Lady Dudley's secret, — 



BLEAK HOUSE. 241 

or rather, Nemo's handwriting was the clue, as he had 
noticed whenever he took her a paper that had been 
copied by the dead man, she had appeared ill at ease, 
and one time asked him, "Who copied that?" in such a 
startled way that he thought she must have seen it before. 
That was why he had sought the copyist in his own 
room. 



ESTHER S STORY, CONTINUED. 

Richard and Ada were lovers. There was no need to 
attempt to conceal the fact — indeed, they did not wish to 
conceal it — that, young as they were, they were hopelessly 
in love; and they asked Uncle John, as they called Mr. Jarn- 
dyce, to sanction their engagement. Guardian, for such I 
called him whom they addressed as Uncle John, seemed 
lately to be worried, so far as he with his cheerful, hopeful 
nature could be worried, with Richard's indecision of 
character. Rick was so young — not having yet reached 
his majority — that my guardian made many excuses for 
him. At considerable expense, at one time he secured 
him a student's place with a surgeon, of which the dear 
fellow soon became tired, not having the least inclination 
for surgery ; then he put him in a law office, for which we 
soon found he cared still less than for surgery. But in 
this office he was led to know more of the Chancery Court 
than he ever knew before, and became intensely interested 
in " Jarndyce and Jarndyce," of which our guardian had 
so often warned him that no good could come, and in 
which he, John Jarndyce, a near heir-at-law, never took 
a part, knowing to what end all engaged in such suits 
generally come. This was the only cloud in our happy 
home, and we hoped that it would soon pass away. 

16 



242 BLEAK HOUSE. 

I asked Guardian about the meaning of Jarndyce and 
Jarndyce, and this is what he told me: A certain Jarn- 
dyce had succeeded in making a great fortune, and 
before dying made a great will disposing of it. In the 
question, how certain trusts under the will were to be 
administered, the lawyers and others concerned in the 
cause had delayed a settlement till nearly one or two 
generations of Jarndyces had passed away, none of the 
original legatees having received a penny for the many 
thousands of pounds which some of them had spent in 
the case. Through years and years the fascinating suit 
had gone on, men losing their minds and fortunes in 
seeking to have it settled, and still it was in Chancery, no 
one bearing the name of Jarndyce making anything out 
of it, though some of the family then living thought 
that the settlement of the great estate was near at hand. 
Guardian told me that, knowing from history and 
experience what such a case meant, and having seen the 
unhappy fate of several of his kindred as they pursued 
the phantom, he had made up his mind never to have 
anything whatever to do with it, and had been happier 
in consequence. 

Meantime Guardian had accepted an invitation to take 
Ada and me and go to Lincolnshire to visit an old friend 
of his, a Mr. Lawrence Boy thorn, who visited Bleak 
House a few months before, and for whom, notwithstand- 
ing his brusqueness, Ada and I conceived a sincere liking. 
We learned during the short visit that he made us that 
his place adjoined Chesney Wold, and that he and Sir 
Leicester were not friendly to each other, as there was a 
certain piece of ground in dispute between them, and 
they had brought suit against each other for trespass. 



BLEAK HOUSE. 243 

We arrived at Mr. Boythorn's on Saturday, and on 
Sunday attended the little church in the park. The 
congregation gathered very slowly, and the services were 
delayed for the entrance of Sir Leicester and Lady Ded- 
lock. "'Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O 
Lord, for in thy sight'" — read the rector, when the 
baronet and his lady were in their pew, and the response 
began. 

What ailed me? I heard nothing, saw nothing, but 
Lady Dedlock for a while, and in some mysterious way I 
associated her with myself and with my life at god- 
mother's, and yet I knew that I had never before seen 
her. What is it? I asked myself, while I heard my 
heart beating loudly. The proud lady looked at me also, 
and her eyes seemed to hold mine with a strange spell. 
I tried to break this by giving heed to the words of the 
beautiful service, and partially succeeded, though in it I 
seemed to hear godmother's voice, and in Lady Dedlock's 
face I thought I saw a resemblance to godmother's, 
though the expression of the two was so opposite. At 
last, by degrees I overcame my strange emotion, and 
when the service was over said nothing to anyone about it. 

Every day of the following week was so bright and 
beautiful that Ada and I would wander in the woods, 
listening to the birds overhead and to the insects under- 
foot; looking through the densely interlaced boughs to 
the glimpses of sky that -we could see; gathering flowers 
and mosses, and taking in the beautiful prospect around 
us, so charmed with the loveliness of it all that often we 
thought we had a foretaste of the better land beyond. 
On Saturday Mr. Jarndyce went with us, and we spent 
hours in the park. Suddenly we were warned that the 



244 BLEAK HOUSE. 

day, which had been a very sultry one, would end in a 
heavy storm. It would be unsafe to remain in the park, 
and we knew we could not reach Mr. Boythorn's before 
the rain would be upon us, so we hastened to the keeper's 
lodge for shelter. 

The lodge was very dark, though all the lattice win- 
dows were thrown open, and Ada and I seated ourselves 
just inside the doorway. We did not know that anyone 
had preceded us till Lady Dedlock stepped forward and 
spoke to us. She stood behind my chair, with her hand 
upon it. Again, at sight of her, and when I heard her 
voice, I was affected just as I had been the Sunday 
before, and there arose innumerable pictures of the past 
before me. She recognized and spoke to Mr. Jarndyce, 
and asked after Richard and Ada, with whose interests 
she seemed to be perfectly familiar; and, looking intently 
at me, she requested to be presented to me, and on being 
told who I was, asked if I had lost both parents. She 
talked to Mr. Jarndyce as an old acquaintance, but in 
a few moments her little pony phaeton arrived, and she 
left us. 

We remained at Mr. Boythorn's for six weeks, but we 
saw no more of Lady Dedlock except on Sundays. 
Chesney Wold was brilliant with company, and Lady 
Dedlock was entertaining them. I think I admired the 
beautiful woman with a kind of fear, and I thought often 
when I looked at her that perhaps I was influencing her 
in the same way that she was influencing me; but we 
went home, and I had many, many other things to think 
of than Chesney Wold and its beautiful mistress. 
Richard was constant in his visits, coming out from 
London every Saturday or Sunday and remaining till 



BLEAK HOUSE. 245 

Monday, and frequently riding out in the evening and 
going back early next morning. He was kind and 
pleasant as ever, but I could not be easy in my mind 
about him. He had got at the very root of the difficulty 
in the great Chancery suit, he told us, and he felt that it 
must now soon be settled and he and Ada would be in 
possession of thousands of pounds, if there was any 
sense or justice in the great Court. Ada loved him too 
well to think otherwise than he did, and became very 
sanguine. My guardian preserved a strict silence on the 
subject, so I decided that as I was going to London to see 
Caddy Jellyby, I would ask Richard to meet me at the 
coach office and have a little talk with me. I frankly 
asked the dear fellow all about his prospects, and he as 
frankly answered me, excusing himself for not attending 
to the study of the law as he should have done, because 
it was impossible to do so while Jarndyce and Jarndyce 
remained in such an unsettled state. 

"I have looked well into the papers, Esther, — I have 
been deep in them for months, and you may rely upon it 
that we shall come out triumphant. As to years of delay, 
there has been no want of them, Heaven knows! and 
there is the greater probability of our bringing the 
matter to a speedy close; in fact, it's on the paper now. 
It will be all right at last, and then you shall see ! " 

He told me that he had worked like a slave on the 
case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, and that it had slaked 
his thirst for the law; that his thoughts were now turned 
to the army, and if he could get a commission, he was all 
right. I knew how all this would end. The fatal blight 
that fell upon everyone who had ever entered upon this 
great suit in Chancery was ruining Eichard and was 



246 BLEAK HOUSE. 

plainly visible upon his countenance. Soon after this 
conversation, he appealed to my guardian about the 
commission, and I really do not think that the latter was 
taken by surprise. He knew in the beginning that 
Richard could never resist its fascination. Of course, as 
Richard was a ward of the Court, nothing could be done 
till a formal application was made to Chancery. He 
received a reproof from the Lord Chancellor for trifling 
with time, but his application was granted, and he was 
entered for an ensign's commission. We hoped for the 
best, but had cause to fear that in the army he would be 
a failure. 

Richard became offended at my guardian, and I 
observed with great regret that, from the hour when the 
little difference arose between them, he never was as free 
and open with Mr. Jarndyce as he had been before. 

Time passed, and my little maid Charlotte Coavinses, 
called " Charley," for a pet name, was taken dangerously 
ill with a malignant fever. Knowing that the whole 
household would be infected if they were free to visit and 
wait upon* her, I took her to a room upstairs and forbade 
Ada and the servants to come near, and constituted my- 
self the little girl's nurse, knowing that I had already 
been exposed to the disease and that the others had not. 
Of course, Guardian and Ada and everyone else objected, 
but I' was firm and they had to yield. The poor child 
had a dreadful time of it, but recovered, and no sooner 
was she well than I was taken down. She became my 
nurse, and a very good one was she, indeed. For a while I 
was blind; but, oh, how patient and unwearying in her 
attentions was Charley ! Ada would come within speak- 
ing distance and beg through the window to be admitted; 



BLEAK HOUSE. 247 

but Charley had promised me not to allow her to enter, 
and neither she nor my guardian saw me again till I was 
pronounced convalescent and was assured that there 
would be no danger of anyone contracting the disease 
from me. 

While I was ill I looked back over my life and 
could see myself a child, a girl at school, Ada's com- 
panion, and my guardian's housekeeper. Well for me 
that I did not know what was just ahead of me! And 
yet, I had learned to look upon the cheerful side of life 
at Greenleaf, and had learned no lessons but those of 
cheerfulness and hope since I had lived with my guardian. 
The thought of being blind had been a terrible one while 
blindness lasted, but my joy was boundless when my 
sight was restored; and when I was again well I was as 
cheerful, aye, more trustful than ever before. Everybody 
seemed to be conspiring to make me happy — how could I 
disappoint them ? Mr. Boythorn sent for me to come and 
take possession of his house, as he was going away for a 
short time. Change was declared necessary tz make me 
completely well, and Guardian and Charley and I went 
to Mr. Boythorn's, Guardian intending only to see us 
safely there. Ada intended coming some days later. The 
air was so pure and bra ing that strength came to my 
body and color to my face, and it was a blessing to see 
Charley's delight at my restoration. I became strong 
enough to walk, and when Guardian went away my maid 
and I would take walks to the village and through the 
park, often stopping at a favorite spot of mine where a 
seat had been erected commanding a lovely view. 

Wo could see part of Chesney Wold distinctly, espe- 
cially that known as the Ghost's Walk. The tradition in 



248 BLEAK HOUSE. 

the family for the origin of this name was, that Lady 
Morbury Dedlock, whose husband favored the cause of 
Charles the First, while her ladyship espoused the 
opposite side, would steal dow T n in the night and go to 
the stables and lame the horses when she knew that on 
the following day Sir Morbury and his retainers were to 
ride forth in the king's cause; and that her husband, 
suspecting her, watched, and one night seized her as she 
stood in the stall of his favorite horse; and that in the 
struggle that ensued she was lamed in the hip, and from 
that time began to pine away, though she could, with 
the aid of a stick, walk upon the terrace, which she 
would do, up and down repeatedly, each day with greater 
difficulty. She never spoke to her husband afterward, 
but when one day he went to her, seeing her fall, she 
uttered these words: — 

" I will die here where I have walked. And I will walk 
here, though I am in my grave. I will walk here until 
the pride of this house is humbled. And when calamity 
or when disgrace is coming to it, let the Dedlocks listen 
for my step ! " 

When I came to Mr. Boythorn's I heard that Sir Lei- 
cester and Lady Dedlock were not at Chesney Wold, and 
I would sit in my favorite spot wondering all about the 
great Hall and its inmates, and whether indeed a footstep 
ever did resound on the Ghost's Walk. One day I was 
resting here, and Charley was gathering violets at a little 
distance from me, when I saw a figure coming towards me 
through the wood. It drew nearer, and I knew that it was 
Lady Dedlock. I would have gone away, but was rendered 
motionless by something in her face that, when a child, 
I had pined for and dreamed of, but which I had never 



BLEAK HOUSE. 



249 



seen in any lace; never till now had I seen it in hers. A 
faintness overpowered me, and I called to Charley. Lady 
Dedlock expressed anxiety lest she should have startled 







"Falling down on her knees and crying, '0 my child, my child, I am 
your nicked and unhappy mother!'" 



250 BLEAK HOUSE. 

me, and told me that she had heard of my illness and 
that she was much concerned about it, and that she was 
glad that I was recovering again, and then, what was 
very strange I thought, she asked me to send my attend- 
ant ahead, as she wished to talk to me. 

At my request Charley moved towards Mr. Boythorn's, 
and Lady Dedlock and I looked at each other, and the 
beating of my heart became so violent that I felt that 
my life was leaving me. She caught me to her breast, 
kissed me over and over again, wept over me, and called 
me back to myself, falling down on her knees and crying: 
" my child, my child, I am your wicked and unhappy 
mother ! try to forgive me ! " I recovered somewhat 
and raised her up, begging her not to humble herself so 
before me. I told her that it was not for me, then resting 
for the first time on my mother's bosom, to take her to 
account for having given me life. We held each other 
in a tender embrace, as she said : — 

"To bless and receive me, it is far too late. I must 
travel my dark road alone, and it will lead me where it 
will. From day to day, sometimes from hour to hour, I 
do not see the way before my guilty feet. This is the 
earthly punishment I have brought upon myself. I bear 
it, and I hide it. ... I must keep this secret, if by any 
means it can be kept, not wholly for myself. I have a 
husband, wretched and dishonoring creature that I am! " 

She told me that in my illness she was almost frantic, 
as she had but just learned that her child was living, and 
that she had followed me down here to speak to me but 
once in all her life, and that when this interview was over 
we would part, probably never to meet again. I asked her 
if her secret was safe, and she told me that she dreaded 



BLEAK HOUSE; 251 

Mr. Tulkinghorn, who prided himself on knowing the 
secrets of many great houses, and who, now having a sus- 
picion of her, she felt was hunting her down and would 
certainly expose her if it were ever in his power. I asked 
if I might confide in Mr. Jarndyce, and she gave me full 
permission. 

We held each other in a loving embrace while we 
could, mother exclaiming in agony that it would be for 
the last time — that we would meet no more. She took 
my hands in hers, gave me a last kiss, and went from me 
into the wood. I knew my mother's secret now, or a 
part of it. Who was my father ? I knew now how my 
mother was my disgrace and I hers. I knew now why I 
was set apart. She gave me a letter that she had written 
for me, and asked that when I had read it I would de- 
stroy it. Safe in my own room, I read it, and learned 
that she had not abandoned me, but that her elder and 
only sister, my godmother, discovering signs of life in me, 
had at my birth taken me away from all who knew me, 
and reared me in rigid secrecy, and had never again 
beheld my mother's face, so deeply did she feel her 
disgrace. 

Richard Carstone was hopelessly in debt. The case of 
Jarndyce and Jarndyce had become life and soul to him. 
He sacrificed time, strength, salary, — all, all to the hopes 
which the delusion spread before him. He had employed 
Mr. Vholes, a lawyer keen and unprincipled, to watch 
the case constantly in Chancery, and for the hope of gain 
the lawyer dogged his steps with false reports and 
illusive promises of a speedy settlement of the great 
estate. My guardian advised that I should go to see him 
at Deal, where he was then stationed. Poor Rick! lie 



252 BLEAK HOUSE. 

was so haggard and wild-looking, he was so disorderly in 
appearance and in his room, he was so unlike anything 
that I had ever seen in him, that I was frightened. He 
told me that he was almost in disgrace, and that he 
meant to leave the army and give all his time to the 
Chancery suit till it was settled. I can never forget his 
look of despair when he exclaimed, " I wish I was dead ! " 

Soon after this he and Ada were secretly married, and 
when she told us of it she declared that she was going to 
London to be with him all the time. Mr. Jarndyce saw 
that they were settled in apartments, and then he and I 
went to the city also till we knew how the great case 
would be settled. It was not long till we knew all about 
it, and it was just what we expected — the lawyers and the 
great Chancery Court acted in the Jarndyce case as they 
had acted in many another one, and divided the estate 
among themselves in costs and charges. The shock was 
too much for Richard and he survived it but a few hours. 
After it was all over, and after Ada's baby was born, we all 
went to Bleak House, where Ada regained her cheerfulness 
in caring for her boy, little Richard, and Mr. Jarndyce. 

In a home of my own, many miles away from Bleak 
House, I now reign as mistress. I had known Allan 
Woodcourt for many years and the love between us was 
deep and abiding. I proved him during the illness of 
both Richard and Ada, to whom he was medical adviser 
— aye, I knew all about his noble character and deeds 
long before that. 

Ada is housekeeper at Bleak House now, and she and 
little Richard call Mr. Jarndyce "Guardian" just as I used 
to, and a careful and loving guardian is he of all that con- 
cerns them. "Jarndyce and Jarndyce" is settled for- 



BLEAK HOUSE. 253 

ever, and its shadows will never cloud the life of the bright 
boy who bears the name of Richard Carstone. My two 
little daughters often share with him the pleasures of my 
old home, and know Mr. Jarndyce by no other name than 
Guardian. 

Who was my father? Long since I learned that the 
unhappy man whose life was ended in the miserable 
lodging above old Krook's shop, was once a gay military 
officer, who won the love of my mother — then a bright, 
beautiful young girl — and cast it from him after he had 
betrayed her. I learned, too, that Lady Dedlock had 
heard the particulars of his wretched death, and that, 
disguised in a servant's dress, she had sought the humble 
graveyard where his body rests. 

The strange steps upon the Ghost's Walk had been 
heard distinctly many times of late, and boded no good. 
Mr. Tulkinghorn had reached out far and wide, and had 
at last learned all the particulars of Lady Dedlock's 
story, and had gone to Chesney Wold and disclosed them. 
She fled — fled through the bleak, cold winter's day down 
to the country, back to the city, her disgrace more than 
she could bear. The story of her flight was brought to 
me and 1 was entreated to go in search of her. I sought 
her, going everywhere where I thought she might possibly 
go, — everywhere, everywhere, — till at last my guide and 
Mr. Woodcourt and I stopped before the iron gate of the 
burying ground where Nemo was buried. On the step 
at the gate we saw a woman lying, and I ran forward; 
but they stopped me. Dressed in strange clothes I did 
not recognize her. She lay there, with one arm twined 
around a bar of the iron gate, seeming to embrace it. 
I saw, but did not comprehend, the solemn and com- 



254 BLEAK HOUSE. 

passionate look in Mr. Woodeourt's face as he stood before 
the woman with head uncovered and with a reverence 
for something; I saw, but did not comprehend, his 
touching the other to keep him back. I heard him and 
the guide talking, and one of them said, " Shall she go ? " 
" She had better go. Her hands should be the first to 
touch her. They have a higher right than ours." I 
passed on to the gate, and stooped down. I lifted the 
heavy head, put the long dark hair aside, and turned 
the face. And it was my mother, cold and dead. 




James Fenimore Cooper at His Desk. 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 

1789-1851. 



James Fenimoke Cooper was the first of American 
novelists to gain a national reputation, as well as the 
first American writer of fiction to gain recognition in 
Europe. His tales of pioneer life in the New World gave 
to these earlier years an interest equal to that which 
Scott had thrown around those of the Old. His sea 
tales were received with great favor on both sides of the 
Atlantic. 

Cooper was born in Burlington, New Jersey, but his 
father having bought extensive tracts of land in the 
interior of New York, where he founded Cooperstown 
on Otsego Lake, his name is chiefly associated with 
that place. He entered Yale College, but after remaining 
there three years, left and entered the navy. After 
remaining there six years he left it and devoted the 
remainder of his life to literature. His first effort, 
"Precaution," had but a very moderate sale. His sec- 
ond work, "The Spy," was immediately successful, and 
from the time of its publication he continued to issue, 
with amazing rapidity, work after work which met with 
great favor. As an author, Cooper excels in his powers 
of description. So lifelike are his scenes that they seem 
to stand distinctly before him who reads of them, and 
so strong and marked was his love of his nationality 
that he, in a greater degree than any other American 
17 257 



258 JAMES FENIM0HE COOPER. 

writer, describes accurately American scenery, manners, 
customs, and ideas. 

He wrote in all thirty novels; but besides his works of 
fiction he wrote "A History of the Navy of the United 
States," in two volumes, and " Lives of American Naval 
Officers"; as well as a series of sketches of travel in 
England, France, Switzerland, and Italy. His writings 
are of very unequal merit, some being of a very high 
order, and others utterly worthless. Notwithstanding 
this, he was one of the greatest and most original writers 
of his day, and shares with Washington Irving the 
honors that were given to them in Europe as well as in 
America. 




"Soon a humble dwelling appeared in sight, and ivithout quitting his 
saddle ?te knocked at the cfoor." 



THE SPY. 



Principal Characters. 

Harvey Birch, the Peddler, and the Spy of the Neutral Ground. 
Mr. Wharton, the Son of an Englishman, whose country estate was 
situated in the Neutral Ground. 

Captain Wharton, his Son, supporter of the Crown. 

Major Dunwoodie, 

Captain Lawton, j> Officers of the Federal Army. 

Colonel Singleton, 

Mr. Harper. 

Frances Wharton, 



} 



, Daughters of Mr. Wharton. 
Sarah Wharton, 

Miss Peyton, Sister-in-Law to Mr. Wharton. 

Katy Haynes, Housekeeper for Harvey Birch. 

Elizabeth Flanagan, Sutler of the camp. 

Csesar, Negro Servant to Mr. Wharton. 



260 



THE SPY. 

By James Fenimore Cooper. 



It was near the close of 1780 that a traveler was seen 
pursuing his way through one of the many little valleys 
that lie in the vicinity of what is now the metropolis 
of our country. A storm was approaching, and it was 
evident that he was looking around him for some place 
of shelter. Nothing satisfactory seemed to offer in the 
neighborhood where he was, and onward he rode, the 
observed of those whose houses he passed in a not very 
thickly settled farming community. Hostilities between 
the colonists and the mother country were then at their 
height. The passing by of a stranger unknown to those 
whose way he, crossed, would cause many conjectures as 
to who he was, and what his errand might be. 

Our traveler was fatigued with the unusual ride of the 
day, and finally determined to seek admission in the 
next house that offered. Soon a humble dwelling 
appeared in sight, and without quitting his saddle he 
knocked at the door. His request for shelter did not 
receive a very reassuring answer. 

"I can't say I like to give lodgings to a stranger in 
these ticklish times," said an unpleasant female voice. 
"I'm nothing but a forlorn lone body; or, what's the 
same thing, there 's nobody but the old gentleman at 
home; but a half mile farther up the road is a house 
where you can get entertainment, and that for nothing. 

261 



262 THE SPY. 

. . . Harvey is away; I wish he 'd take advice, and 
leave off wandering," she continued. "But Harvey 
Birch will have his own way, and die vagabond after all ! " 

The horseman moved on his way as indicated, and 
tying his horse in a spot where he would be protected 
from the storm, he approached the door and knocked 
loudly for admission. An aged black servant opened 
it and showed him into the parlor, where a cheery 
fire dispelled the dullness of a stormy October evening. 
The appearance of the traveler betokened a gentleman, 
and he was received with courtesy by the elderly gentle- 
man and the three ladies who were seated in the room. 

Mr. Wharton, for so was the owner of the estate called, 
after offering a glass of wine to the stanger, paused as he 
held his own glass and inquired politely, — 

"To whose health am I to have the honor of drink- 
ing ?" 

"Mr. Harper," was the courteous reply. 

Mr. Wharton drank to his health, and v the party soon 
entered into conversation. The elderly lady left the room 
to make some household arrangements for the night, and 
the two younger ones joined in the conversation on the 
subject of the war, which was then engrossing all the 
minds in the colonies. 

In a short time Mr. Wharton led the way to the supper 
table, but barely were they seated when a loud knock 
again summoned the faithful black to the door. Scarcely 
had the master of the house time to bid Caesar show the 
second comer in, when the door was hastily thrown open 
and he himself appeared and repeated the request made 
before of the servant. Throwing aside his great-coat, he 
seated himself at the table, when bidden, and uncere- 



THE SPY. 263 

moniously proceeded to allay the cravings of his appetite, 
which proved to be by no means a delicate one. The 
evening passed till Mr. Harper, rising, desired to be 
shown to his place of rest. Scarcely had he left the 
room, when the newcomer arose from his seat, went to 
the door, opened it, and then closed it again. The wig 
which he wore fell from his head, and in an instant he 
was a different man altogether in his appearance, and 
amid the rejoicings of them all, he made himself known 
to them as Mr. Wharton's own and only son, Henry. 

He anxiously inquired who Mr. Harper was, and 
whether he was likely to betray him. 

"Xo, no, no, Massa Harry," said old Caesar, "I been to 
see — Massa Harper on he knee — pray to God — no gem- 
man who pray to God tell of good son, come to see old 
fader — Skinner do that — no Christian ! " 

Mr. Wharton was the younger son of an Englishman 
whose father had provided for him in the colony of New 
York. In the great conflict now going on he had decided 
to remain neutral, and for prudential reasons he had also 
decided to withdraw with his two motherless daughters, 
his sister-in-law, Miss Peyton, and his servants, to his 
country estate in Westchester County, a few miles from 
the city. His only son, Henry, had espoused the cause 
of Britain, and was an ardent supporter of the claims of 
the Crown. 

The storm of the night lasted for two days, and it was 
impossible for Mr. Harper or Henry to get away. At 
breakfast of the second day Csesar entered with a small 
package which he handed to Mr. Wharton, remarking, — 

" Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little 
good 'baccy from York." 



264 THE SPY. 

To Sarah, the elder of Mr. "Wharton's daughters, the 
news that Harvey Birch was near gave unexpected pleas- 
ure. She bade Csesar show him into the parlor. Recol- 
lecting herself she turned to Mr. Harper apologetically 
and said, "If Mr. Harper will excuse the presence of a 
peddler." 

Harvey Birch had been a peddler from his youth. 
Ten years before, he and his father had arrived in the 
valley and purchased the humble dwelling at which Mr. 
Harper had unsuccessfully applied. The history of both 
was unknown, and the movements of the son sometimes 
seemed suspicious. Katy Haynes, their housekeeper, 
with a prying curiosity, found out much of their history, 
but the greater part of it remained unknown even to 
her. 

Sarah Wharton made heavy purchases from the con- 
tents of Harvey's pack, as did also her aunt. But it was 
not fabrics alone that engaged their attention. Questions 
about the armies were exchanged, and Harvey gave them 
the information they desired. Harper sat, evidently 
interested in the book before him, but it was plain that 
nothing of the conversation was lost upon him. 

The ladies finished their business with Harvey and 
he withdrew, when Mr. Harper, turning to Harvey, 
exclaimed, — 

"If any apprehensions of me induce Captain Wharton 
to maintain his disguise, I wish him to be undeceived; 
had I motives for betraying him, they could not operate 
under present circumstances." 

The effect of these words upon the family was one of 
speechless surprise. More followed from the stranger, 
and he then rose to leave the room. 



THE SPY. 265 

Frances, the beautiful younger daughter, stopped him ; 
" You cannot — you will not betray my brother." » 

" I cannot, and I will not," he answered, as he released 
her hands. 

The storm began to break the afternoon of the second 
day. The family and their guest were on the piazza. 
They were suddenly interrupted by the reappearance of 
the peddler. Harper remarked that his business would 
not now admit of delay, and he would -avail himself of 
the fine evening to ride a few miles on his journey. 
Regret was expressed at his departure, but when he gave 
his hand to Henry he remarked, — 

" The step you have undertaken is one of much 
danger, and disagreeable consequences to yourself may 
result from it; in such a case, I may have it in my 
power to prove the gratitude I owe your family for its 
kindness." 

He bowed to the party and was gone. The eyes of 
Harvey Birch followed him, and he drew a long and 
heavy sigh. He then asked Henry if he was also going 
to leave that night, but was answered that nothing could 
induce him to do so. Harvey tried to persuade him, 
without giving reasons, but it availed nought. During 
the evening Henry remarked, — 

"This Harvey Birch . . . gives me more uneasiness 
than I am willing to own." 

"How is it that he is able to travel to and fro in these 
difficult times, without molestation?" said Miss Peyton. 

■Sir Henry would not permit a hair of his head to be 
injured," he answered. 

"Indeed!" said Frances; "is he then known to Sir 
Henry Clinton?" 



266 THE SPY. 

"At least he ought to be." 

Forebodings of evil rilled the minds of each member 
of the family^ as they retired to their rooms. In the 
morning Henry was late at table, and had scarcely taken 
his seat when Caesar entered, exclaiming in alarm, — 

"Run — Massa Harry — run — if he love old Caesar, run 
— here come a rebel horse." 

Captain Wharton refused to do this, and soon he saw 
fifty dragoons winding down the valley and surrounding 
the house of Mr. Birch. They did not remain there long, 
but turned in the direction of the Locusts, as Mr. Whar- 
ton's home was called. Captain Lawton, of the dragoons, 
put Captain Wharton under arrest for being within the 
lines of the Federal army, but notified him that it 
belonged to Major Dunwoodie, his superior, who would 
soon arrive, to make disposition of him. 

Frances, young as she was, had met Major Dunwoodie 
in her city home, and the result of the attachment that 
had sprung up between them was an engagement of 
marriage. On his appearance in the house, soon after 
Henry's arrest, she led him to a room where they might 
be uninterrupted, and told him of her brother's danger. 

" Your brother ! " he cried ; " your brother ! explain your- 
self — what dreadful meaning is concealed in your words ? " 

"Has not Captain Lawton told you of the arrest of 
Henry by himself this very morning ? " continued Frances. 

"He told me of arresting a captain of the 60th in 
disguise, without mentioning where or whom," replied the 
Major. 

Her agitation was so great that Dunwoodie was 
unnerved. 

"Frances, what can I do?" 



THE SPY. '2i)7 

" Do ! would Major Dunwoodie yield his friend to his 
enemies — the brother of his betrothed wife?" 

It was not long till the soldiers of the opposing armies 
were in mortal combat near the house of Harvey Birch. 
Captain Wharton was under guard at the Locusts. The 
guard went to a window and became interested in the 
scene without. The Captain was quick in his motions, 
and dexterously throwing himself out of the window, 
sprang upon a horse that was standing near, and with 
the swiftness of the wind, was soon beyond the reach 
of pursuit. He was startled at a certain point by a 
voice: — 

"Bravely clone, Captain! Don't spare the whip, and 
turn to your left before you cross the brook." 

Turning, he saw Harvey Birch sitting in a position to 
command a view of the valley below. He took his advice, 
and soon joined the British ranks. During the battle, 
however, he was recaptured, and returned to the Locusts. 

Two Federal officers were riding leisurely along, in 
advance of their troop, talking of the bloody affray when 
it was all over, the Americans having been victorious, 
when one of them, Captain Lawton, exclaimed, — 

" What animal is moving through the field on our 
right?" 

- T is a man," answered Mason, his companion. 

"By his hump 'tis a dromedary! Harvey Birch! — 
Take him, dead or alive." 

The chase commenced. For a moment the peddler was 
helpless, and 11 ion took to flight, keeping in the shadow 
of the wood. At this time a heavy reward was offered 
lor his arrest, and well lie knew that many were seeking 



268 THE SPY. 

it and him. Captain Lawton and his men pursued him, 
and the Captain, riding in advance, was about to capture 
him, when his horse stumbled and fell, throwing him 
and rendering him helpless. This was the peddler's 
opportunity. He seized the Captain's sword. For a 
moment the demon within him prevailed, and Birch 
brandished the powerful weapon in the air; in the next, 
it fell harmless on the reviving but helpless trooper. The 




Harvey Birch, the Peddler, Spares the Life of the American Officer. 

peddler vanished up the side of the friendly rock. 
But his father lay dying, and he determined at all 
hazards to see him again. Caesar had gone to watch 
with Katy, and they were surprised at Harvey's entrance 
during the night. During their watch they heard a noise 
in an adjoining room, and going thither, met a wicked- 
looking man whom Harvey recognized as the leader of 



THE SPY. 269 

a gang of thieves, known throughout the country as the 
Skinners. By threats and tortures Harvey was compelled 
to yield the gold which for many years he had so care- 
fully hoarded. 

During the night the elder Birch died, and Harvey, 
much as he loved him, knew that haste would have to be 
observed in the obsequies. Captain Lawton, who had 
been injured in his fall from his horse while pursuing 
Harvey, and had been under treatment at the home of 
Mr. Wharton, was about to depart to join his troopers 
when the funeral procession approached. The Captain 
sat in his saddle in rigid silence until the procession 
came opposite him, and then for the first time Harvey 
raised his eyes from the ground to the enemy, whom he 
so much dreaded. His first impulse was flight, but 
recovering his recollection he kept his place behind 
the coffin and passed the Captain with a firm step but 
a throbbing heart. When the first clod fell upon the 
coffin, Harvey's frame became convulsed for an instant; 
but mastering his emotion, till the grave w T as filled, and 
the turf covered the little hillock, he stood quietly; and 
then, uncovering his head, he spoke : — 

"My friends and neighbors, I thank you for assisting 
me to bury my dead out of my sight." 

About four miles from the Locusts two roads inter- 
sected, and throughout the neighborhood the intersection 
was known as the Four Corners. A rude hostelry was 
kept here at the present time by Elizabeth Flanagan, who 
was regarded as the sutler of the camp, in that she 
always followed them with supplies, and pitched her 
tent — which was often a mythical one — near their own. 
A gay troop of officers were gathered here on the 



270 THE SPY. 

evening of the day of Mr. Birch's interment, and a 
demijohn of fine old wine added much to their hilarity, 
which at its height was interrupted by the door being 
unceremoniously opened and the band of Skinners 
entering and dragging the body of Harvey Birch along, 
the peddler bending beneath his pack. 

"Are you Harvey Birch?" asked Major Dunwoodie. 

"I am," answered Birch, proudly. 

" Do you know that I should be justified in ordering 
your execution this night ? . . . You die to-morrow." 

"'Tis as God wills," answered Birch. 

A rude shed extended the whole length of the hostelry, 
and from one of its ends a small apartment had been 
partitioned, and in this Harvey was imprisoned, closely 
watched by his guard. The room was really the private 
room of Mrs. Flanagan, but it had other and varied uses. 
Orders were given that no one have access to it during 
the night but the sentinel and the lady to whom it 
belonged. She, imbibing deeply of the contents of the 
demijohn, lay down before the fire in the sitting-room 
after her guests withdrew, and slept a sleep whose sonor- 
ous breathing proved would be one both deep and long. 

The sentinel walked his beat, and Harvey, throwing 
himself upon the pallet usually occupied by Betty, was 
soon to all appearances sleeping as soundly as she, his 
breathing answering to hers in the adjoining room. 

Major Dunwoodie could not sleep, and rising early 
he went to an orchard adjoining the place where he was 
stationed. Imagine his surprise when ordered by a 
voice near by to "Stand or die!" Turning in its 
direction, whom should he see seated on a shelving rock, 
with musket pointed directly at him, but Harvey Birch, 



THE SPY. 271 

whom he supposed to be under strict guard at that very- 
moment. 

"If I am to be murdered, fire! I will never become 
your prisoner." 

"No, Major Dunwoodie," said Birch, "it is neither my 
intention to capture nor to slay." 

"What then would you have, mysterious being?" said 
Dunwoodie. 

"Your good opinion. I would wish all good men 
to judge me with lenity." 

The peddler discharged his musket in the air and 
threw it at the feet of Dunwoodie. When the latter 
looked again on the rock the spot was vacant. 

By the time he reached the camp it was all astir, ready 
for a forward march. The officers suggested that their 
prisoner, Birch, who was held in detestation, should be 
executed before they marched. Dunwoodie, keeping 
what he had seen of Birch to himself, went with them 
to the place which was supposed to contain the peddler. 

" I trust you have your prisoner in safety," said he to 
the sentinel. 

"He is yet asleep, and he makes such a noise, I could 
hardly hear the bugles sound the alarm." 

" Open the door and bring him forth." 

The order was obeyed, but imagine the surprise of all 
when no prisoner was found. In the place where he was 
supposed to have been sleeping, lay Betty Flanagan, 
wearing off the effects of her last evening's potations. 
The noise of the soldiers awoke her, and her indignation 
knew no bounds when she was accused of connivance at 
the escape of the prisoner. 

Captain Lawton stood with folded arms, looking on 



272 THE SPY. 

the scene before him. His manner struck Major Dun- 
woodie as singular. Their eyes met, and they walked 
together for a few moments in close conversation, when 
the Major returned and dismissed the guard to the place 
of rendezvous. 

Written on a blank leaf in Sergeant Hollister's Bible, 
which he had left with Birch to prepare him for his 
awful fate, were the words: — 

" These certify, that if suffered to get free, it is by God's 
help alone, to whose divine aid I humbly riccommind 
myself. I'm forced to take the woman's clothes, but in 
her pocket is a ricompinse. Witness my hand — 

"Harvey Birch." 

Betsy's wrath was mollified by the golden guinea that 
she found concealed in the pocket of her dress, and which 
amply repaid her for the loss of her apparel in which 
Harvey had eluded the vigilance of the guard and made 
his escape. 

Sergeant Hollister was discussing the merits of Major 
Dunwoodie with Mrs. Flanagan as they sat together in 
the evening of the day upon which the Major and his 
troops had withdrawn from the vicinity of the Locusts, 
when a voice exclaimed, — 

" Why, then, are you here idle, when all that he holds 
most dear are in danger?" 

A mysterious billet had recently been found that gave 
intimation of danger to the Whartons, and the voice now 
heard brought consternation to the heart of the Sergeant. 
He turned, on hearing it, and perceived Harvey Birch 
standing near him. 



THE SPY. 273 

"Arm and mount, and fly to the rescue of your officer, 
if you are worthy of the cause in which you serve, and 
would not disgrace the coat you wear." 

He vanished from their sight, and with a speed that 
left them uncertain which way he had fled. 

The Skinners had determined to enter the Locusts 
that night, and in the efforts they made to carry off all 
that was valuable, fire was set to the dwelling. The 
fright of the family was so great that the young sisters 
seemed to have lost all thought of the means of escape or 
control of their judgment. Frances was rescued, and a 
trooper, in his efforts to reach Sarah, was met by a man 
carrying her to a place of safety. Instead of one of his 
own men, Captain Lawton was surprised to see that it 
was the peddler who had saved her. 

"Ha, the spy!" he exclaimed; "by heavens, you cross 
me like a specter." 

" Captain Lawton," said Birch, " I am again in your 
power, for I can neither flee, nor resist." 

" The cause of America is dear to me as life," said 
Lawton ; " but she cannot require her children, to forget 
gratitude and honor. Fly, unhappy man, while yet you 
are unseen, or it will exceed my power to save you." 

"May God prosper you, and make you victorious over 
your enemies.," said Birch, grasping the hand of the 
Captain. 

"Hold," said Lawton to him, "are you what you seem? 
— can you — are you " 

"A royal spy," interrupted Birch, and his gaunt form 
glided out into the darkness. 

The Locusts, the home so lately of refinement and 
wealth, was gone, and its inmates were compelled to seek 

18 



274 THE SPY. 

a temporary home in a rude dwelling at the Four 
Corners. After a brief stay here, they began to disperse, 
the family of Mr. Wharton going northward into the 
Highlands of the Hudson to be present at the trial of 
Captain Wharton. While climbing a mountain, Katy 
Haynes, who since Mr. Birch's death had found a home 
in Mr. Wharton's family, and Frances preferred to walk 
to the summit, and as they walked along the way, Katy 
unburdened herself to her companion of the strange 
man who to the latter was best known as " the peddler." 

"Lord, Miss Fanny, Harvey is a man no calculation 
can be made on. Though I lived in his house for a long 
concourse of years, I have never known whether he be- 
longed above or below." * 

The day had been cloudy and cool, but as the two 
walked along and talked, the rays lighted up the High- 
lands and everything was clear before their vision. Far 
up the rocks Frances beheld something like a rude 
structure, and presently, perhaps from what Katy had 
just told her, she saw the figure of a man gliding into 
the hut, and which to her bore a strong resemblance to 
Harvey Birch. She said nothing to her companion 
about it, but the image of the hut and the appearance of 
the man remained in her memory and served her a 
purpose when she had great need of them. 

The trial of Captain Wharton had begun, and before 
the three arbiters of his fate the prisoner sat and listened 
to the charges brought against him. The chief, or 
president, of the three was Colonel Singleton, colonel of 

1 The American party was called the party belonging: " above," and the 
British that of "below," having reference to the course of the Hudson. 



THE SPY. 275 

Major Dunwoodie's regiment. Henry was charged with 
passing the pickets of the American army, and was 
accused of being a spy. The trial proceeded in a 
dignified and formal, though kind manner, and every 
evidence was adduced to prove that not as a spy had he 
gone home, but for the great love he bore his father and 
his sisters had he incurred the danger. Mr. Wharton 
gave evidence, and then Frances was brought before the 
judges. Her testimony was clear and in her brother's 
favor, till Colonel Singleton put the question, — 

"Did he leave the house until taken, or had he inter- 
course with any out of your own dwelling?" 

"With none — no one, excepting our neighbor, the 
peddler Birch." 

"With whom?" exclaimed the Colonel, turning pale, 
and shrinking as from the sting of an adder. 

"But Harvey Birch," repeated Frances, gazing wildly 
around her. 

"Harvey Birch!" echoed all the judges. 

"To you, gentlemen, it can be no new intelligence to 
hear that Harvey Birch is suspected of favoring the royal 
cause," said Henry, again advancing before the judges; 
"for he has already been condemned by your tribunals 
to the Me that I now see awaits myself. I will there- 
fore explain, that it was by his assistance I procured 
the disguise, and passed your pickets; but to my dying 
moment, with my dying breath, I will avow that my 
intentions were as pure as the innocent being before you." 

The verdict went against him, and he was condemned 
to die by nine o'clock on the morning of the next day. 
Frances's pleading induced Colonel Singleton to offer to 
go in person to Washington, and plead in Henry's favor. 



276 THE SPY. 

True to his promise, the Colonel went, but it availed 
nothing. 

"What news?" asked Major Dunwoodie of the courier, 
as he saw him returning with the message from the 
commander-in-chief. He received the paper and broke 
the seal. The hopes that all entertained were blasted 
with misery as he read the words written underneath the 
sentence of the court: "Approved — George Washington." 

Henry was making preparations for his impending 
doom. The last solemn charges had been given regard- 
ing the loved ones in his home, for whom he had risked 
so much, and then he asked to be left alone with 
Dunwoodie. His aunt and Frances rose to leave the 
room, when the former declared her intention of going 
to Washington himself. Suddenly a thought flashed 
through the mind of Frances, and she exclaimed, — 

"Why not apply to Mr. Harper?" for the first time 
recollecting the words of their guest. 

" What said he ? " said Dunwoodie 

"He bade Henry apply to him when in danger, and 
promised to requite the son for the hospitality of the 
father." 

"Rest easy, rest easy, for Henry is safe," cried Dun- 
woodie. 

The landlady of the house where the Whartons were 
staying felt it her duty to send for a minister to attend to 
the spiritual wants of Henry, but the one to whom she 
sent could not respond, and in his stead he sent one 
whose forbidding aspect and harsh, fanatical words 
brought anything but comfort and consolation. Miss 
Peyton and the landlady left the room under his scorch- 
ing rebukes, and Henry was giving vent to his hard-to- 



THE SPY. 277 

be-repressed feelings, when a third voice was heard, which 
said, — 

"Such a denunciation would have driven many 
women into fits; but it has answered the purpose well 
enough, as it is." 

" Who 's that?" cried Henry. 

" It is I, Captain Wharton," answered Harvey Birch, 
revealing himself to him. 

" Good heavens — Harvey ! " 

" Silence! " said the peddler, solemnly; " 't is a name not 
to be mentioned, and least of all here, within the heart of 
the American army." 

He disclosed to Henry his plans for helping him make 
his escape. Henry informed him that Dunwoodie was 
searching for Harper, and that if he found him, his 
liberation was certain. In reply Birch asked him why he 
depended on Harper. Hearing his reasons, he replied 
that neither Harper nor Dunwoodie could save his life, 
and that Henry's only hope lay in his flight with 
him. To his plans Henry acceded, and with the help 
of Csesar, Captain Wharton was soon disguised, and 
followed his leader right through the militia who were 
lounging around the yard through which they made 
their exit. Not without great danger did they reach the 
mountain, and it was not till they had reached a point 
inaccessible after dark to any but one familiar with their 
every turning that Henry felt any measure of security. 

When Frances knew of her brother's escape, she could 
not rid herself of the thought that in some way Harvey 
Birch would convey him to the mountain, and in confer- 
ence with her aunt, she determined at all hazards to go 
to the hut and see if they were not there. She set out 



278 THE SPY. 

on her lonely walk, climbing over rocks and making her 
way through a tangled* undergrowth, fear of danger and 
love of her brother raging within her for the mastery. 
When she reached the place where she supposed the hut 
to be, no vestige of it appeared. The thought of her 
solitude struck on the terrified girl, and approaching a 
shelving rock, she bent forward to gaze on the signs of 
life in the valley below, when a ray of keen light dazzled 
her eyes and a warm air diffused itself over her whole 
frame. She looked on the ledge beneath her and per- 
ceived that she stood directly over the object of her 
search. Around a winding path she advanced to the 
den, and we may know something of her feelings when, 
on entering it, she saw no other than Mr. Harper within, 
sitting with some papers spread out before him. She fell 
at his feet as she cried: — 

"Save him — save him — save my brother; remember 
your promise, and save him. . . . There is none here 
but my God and you; and by his sacred name I conjure 
you to remember your promise, and save my brother ! " 

While they were talking, the voices of Henry and 
Harvey were heard outside, and Harper immediately 
vanished into a secret chamber in the rock. When the 
two men entered, we may imagine their surprise at seeing 
Frances. Not a word did she utter of Harper, but 
seeing Harvey looking around uneasily, she glanced 
significantly towards the place where Harper disap- 
peared, and he seemed satisfied. 

" But why and wherefore are you here ? " exclaimed her 
astonished brother. 

She told them briefly of what had occurred at the 
house since they left it, and of the motives which induced 



THE SPY. 279 

her to seek them. Henry and the peddler remained only 
long enough to partake of some simple refreshment, and 
then disappeared down the mountain-side at a rapid rate. 

Soon after Frances reached her friends, a messenger, who 
wore the dress of Washington's aid-de-camp, approached 
Dunwoodie with orders from the commander-in-chief to 
concentrate his squadron on the heights of Croton, where 
a body of foot would be ready to support him. 

" Thank God ! " cried Dunwoodie, " my hands are 
washed of Henry's recapture. I can now move to my 
duty with honor." 

The war for independence was over, and peace had 
settled down upon the land. Where battlefields had 
been covered with the slain were waving fields of golden 
grain; where camps had been, were hamlets and prosper- 
ous towns. The ploughshare had taken the place of the 
musket and sword — the hum of machinery was heard in 
place of the battle drum and the tramp of moving armies. 
But across the waters was the dark war-cloud again 
lowering, and the American colonies were soon involved 
— the American armies were soon arrayed once more 
against the troops of England. But instead of the banks 
of the Hudson, those of Niagara were to be the scene of the 
conflict. Washington was resting, with an untarnished 
name and growing honor, amid the peaceful shades of 
Mount Vernon. 

'Twas the evening of July 25, 1814, that a young 
officer stood on the table rock of Niagara, and looked 
upon the flood of waters beneath his feet. Another 
officer stood near him. A deep silence was observed 
by each, till one of them exclaimed, — 



280 THE SPY. 

"See! Wharton, there is a man crossing in the very 
eddies of the cataract, and in a skiff no bigger than an 
eggshell." 

As he drew near them, instead of a soldier, he proved 
to be an old man of seventy, who anxiously inquired the 
news from the contending armies. This given, he lin- 
gered near respectfully, and heard the conversation 
going on between the young officers. The names of 
Wharton and Dunwoodie and of others with which we 
are familiar, caught his ear and held him to the spot, 
and he listened with the most intense and undisguised 
interest to what they said. 

Whilst they were talking, they were interrupted by 
sudden and heavy explosions of artillery, which were 
followed by long-continued volleys of firearms, and soon 
the air was filled with the tumult of a warm and well- 
contested battle. Above the sound of the cataract was 
the sound of cannon and musketry, and soon the troops 
were in motion and a movement was made to support 
the division of the army which was already engaged. 
The battle of Lundy's Lane raged — was fought — was 
decisively in favor of the Americans. Among the dead 
was found an old man in civilian's dress, lying on his 
back, with a look upon his face more like a smile of 
peace than that of a convulsion of pain, holding in his 
hands a small tin box through which the fatal bullet had 
gone. Captain Wharton Dunwoodie opened it, and to 
his astonishment found a paper containing the following 
words: — 

" Circumstances of political importance, which involve 
the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret 
what this paper now reveals. Harvey Birch has for 



THE SPY. 281 

years been a faithful and unrequited servant of his 
country. Though man does not, may God reward him 
for his conduct! 

"Geo. Washington." 

It was the Spy of the Neutral Ground, who died as 
he had lived, devoted to his country, and a martyr to 
her liberties, though suspected of being an enemy to her 
interests, and more than once tried and condemned as a 
traitor of the deepest, dye. 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 



Principal Characters. 

Uncas, Hero, Son of Chingachgook, the Last of the Mohicans. 
Chingachgook, Father of Uncas, a Mohican. 
Magua, Le Eenard Subtil, the Indian Runner and Guide. 
Montcalm, a General of the French Army. 
General Webb, a General of the British Army. 
General Munro, Commander of Fort William Henry and Father 
of Alice and Cora. 

Cora, Heroine, Daughter of General Munro, Sister to Alice. 

Alice, Daughter of General Munro, Sister to Cora. 

Major Hey ward, a Young British Officer, Suitor for Alice's hand. 

Hawkeye, the Scout. 

David Gamut, the Singing-Master. 



282 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

By James Fenimore Cooper. 



It was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of North 
America, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were 
to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet. A 
wide and apparently an impervious boundary of forests 
severed the possessions of the hostile provinces, of France 
and England. The hardy colonist, and the trained Euro- 
pean who fought at his side, frequently expended months 
in struggling against the rapids of the streams, or in 
effecting the rugged passes of the mountains, in quest 
of an opportunity to exhibit their courage in a more 
martial conflict. 

Perhaps no district throughout the wide extent of 
the intermediate frontiers can furnish a livelier picture 
of the cruelty and fierceness of the savage warfare of 
those periods than the country which lies between the 
head waters of the Hudson and the adjacent lakes. 
Lake George had been so named by the English in 
honor of their sovereign. To the French it was known 
as Lac du Saint Sacrement, whose waters, on account of 
being peculiarly pure and limpid, were used by the early 
Jesuit missionaries in the rite of baptism; but to the 
Indian the beautiful sheet of water was known as 
Horican, and by this name we shall speak of it. The 
region of the lake was the scene of bitter war and cruel 
bloodshed. The incidents which follow occurred in the 

283 



2£4 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

third year of the war which England and France last 
waged for the possession of the surrounding territory. 

Montcalm was moving up the Champlain with a large 
army, and one midsummer's evening an Indian runner 
brought the request from Munro, the commander of a 
fort on Lake Horican, to General Webb to send reinforce- 
ments to him. Two forts had been erected by the British 
at the ends of the portage uniting the Hudson with the 
lake, the northern one commanded by Munro, the one at 
the southern extremity in command of General Webb, 
under whom was a body of more than five thousand 
men. 

In the early morning, Webb's army was in motion, 
attended with the pomp and display of the proud British 
army. The sounds of the soldiery had died away on the 
breeze, but there still remained the signs of another 
departure, before a log cabin of unusual size and accom- 
modations, in front of which those sentinels paced their 
rounds who were known to guard the person of the 
English general. The horses which stood in readiness 
before the cabin showed that two of them at least were 
to be ridden by females. Among the crowd of spectators 
who stood by to witness the gayly-caparisoned party 
move off, was one who in countenance and actions was a 
marked exception to the others. He expressed his senti- 
ments on the horses before him either favorably or unfa- 
vorably. His voice was remarkably soft and sweet. He 
acted as one who had in his keeping some high and extra- 
ordinary trust. He was delivering encomiums on one of 
the horses, when his eye turned and fell upon the Indian 
runner at his side. . The Indian was apparently stoical, 
but there was a sullen fierceness mingled with his quiet, 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 285 

and there were other features about him that would 
make him a mark to an acute observer. His eyes for 
a moment met those of the man who now scanned him, 
and then turned away, and he seemed to be looking into 
vacancy. 

The curiosity of the spectators was at that moment 
directed to two ladies, who came forth with a young man 
in the dress of an officer, and made ready to mount their 
horses. When seated in their saddles, the young officer 
who was to be their attendant mounted his horse, and 
with graceful farewell bows to General Webb, followed by 
their train they proceeded quietly towards the northern 
entrance of the encampment. The Indian runner glided 
by the party and guided them along the military road in 
front of them. One of the ladies, the elder of the two, 
was veiled; the other one took no thought to conceal her 
face from the breezes of the morning or the gaze of her 
companions. As the Indian passed them, the former 
lifted her veil and gazed upon him with a look of pity, 
admiration, and horror, as her dark eye followed the easy 
motions of the savage. She then covered her face and 
rode on, as one who thought nothing of the scene around 
her. The younger lady inquired of the officer, their 
escort, about the Indian, and he replied: — 

"He is said to be a Canadian; and yet he served with 
our friends the Mohawks, who, as you know, are one of 
the six allied nations. He was brought amongst us, as 
I have heard, by some strange accident in which your 
father was interested, and in which the savage was rigidly 
dealt by; but I forget the idle tale, — it is enough that 
he is now our friend." 

The young lady was not prepossessed in favor of the 



286 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

runner, and on hearing that he had once been her 
father's enemy, she liked him still less. She asked 
Major Hey ward, the young officer, to speak to him, so 
that she might hear his voice, remarking that she had 
great faith in the tones of the human voice. She was 
told that it would be in vain to do so, as, even should he 
understand him, in all probability the Indian, like most 
of his people, would affect ignorance of the English 
language. She still expressed her distrust of their guide, 
and to her veiled companion, said: — 

"Cora, what think you? If we journey with the 
troops, though we may find their presence irksome, shall 
we not feel better assurance of our safety ? " 

"Should we distrust the man, because his manners 
are not our manners, and that his skin is dark ? " coldly 
asked Cora. 

Alice gave her steed a cut and followed the runner 
along the dark and tangled pathway. Major Hey ward 
rode along by Cora's side. They heard horses' hoofs in 
the near distance, and soon a colt appeared, and then the 
man who has already been noticed among those who 
witnessed the departure of the party from the cabin came 
into view, and as he drew near them Heyward inquired 
the reason of his presence. He answered that he also 
was riding to Fort William Henry, and "concluded good 
company would seem consistent to the wishes of both 
parties." 

" You appear to possess the privilege of a casting vote," 
returned Heyward. "We are three, whilst you have 
consulted no one but yourself." 

"Even so. The first point to be obtained is to know 
one's own mind. Once sure of that, — and where women 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 287 

are concerned it is not easy, — the next is, to act up to the 
decision. I have endeavored to do both, and here I am." 

Nothing that Hey ward could say daunted the stranger. 
Alice was now at the side of Hey ward. 

"Throw aside that frown, Hey ward; . . . suffer him to 
journey in our train," remarked Alice. "Besides," she 
added, in a low and hurried voice, casting a glance at the 
distant Cora, who had ridden forward and now slowly 
followed the footsteps of their silent but sullen guide, 
"it may be a friend added to our strength, in time of 
need." 

She pointed to the couple in front, and Heyward soon 
joined them, while Alice rode along by the side of the 
stranger, and, learning that he cared for music, they 
began to talk upon that theme. Soon the man began 
singing, in a full, melodious voice, a psalm of David, the 
tones reaching those in advance. The Indian uttered a 
few words in broken English to Heyward, who requested 
the singer to cease his musical efforts, urging that, though 
he apprehended no danger near, prudence demanded 
that they journey as quietly as possible. Could Major 
Heyward only have seen the savage face that was 
watching them from the thicket, he would have felt the 
need of greater watchfulness than ever. 

On that (lay, two men were lingering on the banks 
of a small but rapid stream, within an hour's journey 
of the encampment of Webb. One of them was a grave, 
dusky Indian, the other ,a white man; but they were 
friends, judging from their conversation. The Indian 
addressed his companion as "Hawkeye"; the latter 
always called his companion "Chingachgook." Ching- 
achgook was telling Hawkeye of the history and tradi- 



288 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

tions of his tribe, and finished pathetically by say- 
ing:— 

" So all of my family departed, each in his turn, to the 
land of spirits. I am on the hilltop, and must go down 
into the valley; and when Uncas follows in my footsteps, 
there will no longer be any of the blood of the Saga- 
mores, for my boy is the last of the Mohicans." 

"Uncas is here," said another voice, in the same soft, 
guttural tones, near his elbow; "who speaks to Uncas?" 
and at the next instant a youthful warrior passed between 
them and seated himself on the banks of the rapid 
stream. The youth brought to his father news of the 
Maquas, their enemies. He was interrupted by the 
appearance of Major Hey ward and his party, who 
inquired of the distance to the post called William 
Henry. The answers the officer received were not 
reassuring, and in a short conversation Heyward learned 
that his Indian guide was an enemy and had purposely 
led him wrong. Chingachgook and the scout, for such 
was Hawkeye, urged that the runner, Magua, be instantly 
shot, but Heyward would not consent. Then it was 
decided that he had better be captured and bound, and 
the scout directed them how to do this. Heyward was 
to engage him in conversation, while Uncas and his 
father should stealthily approach him from different 
directions and effect their plans. These plans proved 
futile, and Magua, suspecting something, darted into 
the woods and was lost to them. Realizing his own 
danger, but more that of the ladies in his care, Major 
Heyward begged Hawkeye and the two Indians to defend 
his charges and to escort them to the fort. After con- 
sulfation with the two Indians in their own language, 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 289 

the scout turned away, saying in a sort of soliloquy, and 
in the English tongue: — 

"Uncas is right! It would not be the act of men to 
leave such harmless things to their fate, even though 
it breaks up the harboring place forever. If you would 
save these tender blossoms from the fangs of the worst of 
sarpents, gentleman, you have neither time to lose nor 
resolution to throw away ! " To Hey ward he said : — 

"These Mohicans and I will do what man's thoughts 
can invent, to keep such flowers, which, though so sweet, 
were never made for the wilderness, from harm, and that 
without hope of any other recompense but such as God 
always gives to upright dealings. First, you must promise 
two things, both in your own name and for your friends, 
or without serving you we shall only injure ourselves! 
. . . The one is, to be still as these sleeping woods, let 
what will happen; and the other is, to keep the place 
where we shall take you, forever a secret from all mortal 
men." 

Making for the river, Cora and Alice were put into a 
canoe, and Hawkeye and Hey ward bore it up the stream, 
the Indians and the white man having gone by another 
route to the point where they were to be reunited. They 
went to the foot of Glenn's Falls, and the scout and the 
Mohicans disappeared in a cavern of a huge rock that 
hung over the water's edge. Heyward and his compan- 
ions were uneasy at this, but a sudden light flashed upon 
those without, and laid bare the much-prized secret of the 
place. At a little distance in advance stood Uncas, his 
whole person thrown powerfully into view. The ingenu- 
ous Alice gazed at his free air and proud carriage, as she 
would have looked upon some precious relic of the 

19 



290 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

Grecian chisel, to which life had been imparted by the 
intervention of a miracle. 

They went inside the cave, and were soon safe from 
any enemy who might pursue them. A simple meal of 
venison was soon before them, and sassafras boughs 
thrown upon the soft black rock formed pleasant seats 
for the ladies. They were enjoying * some measure of 
security, when they were startled by a piercing cry, the 
like of which neither the scout nor the Indians had 
ever heard before. Uncas went out to reconnoitre, but 
returned unsatisfied. The party prepared for rest, Cora 
and Alice being shown into an inner chamber, Major 
Heyward accompanying them as guard. Again the 
horrid cry was heard, and it was then decided that some 
should keep watch -during the night, upon the rock. 
Hawkeye and the Mohicans assumed this duty. 

With the first streakings of the dawn the party were 
awake and making preparations for moving on towards 
Fort William Henry. Just then it seemed, for near a 
minute, as if the demons of hell had possessed them- 
selves of the air about them, and were venting their 
savage humors in barbarous sounds. From the opposite 
side of the stream the quick reports of a dozen rifles 
were heard, which were soon answered by those in front 
of the cave. Their only hope was that Munro, alarmed 
at their non-arrival at the fort, would send a detachment 
strong enough to escort them to a place of safety. Firing 
ceased, though a vigilant watch was kept up by the 
guards from their fissures in the rocks. Heyward hoped 
that the attack would not be renewed, but a motion from 
the scout showed him where the enemy were, at a point 
very near to them. His impetuosity to proceed was 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 291 

checked by the scout, who warned him that danger was 
ahead of them and they must await the movements of the 
enemy. They did not wait long. Soon it was a hand- 
to-hand contest, in which the party from the cave were 
victorious, several of the attacking party having been 
disabled or killed and thrown from the top of the 
precipice. 

" To cover! to cover! " shouted Hawkeye, "to cover, for 
your lives ! the work is but half ended ! " There were 
more Indians at hand, and the fighting was continued 
till the powder of the party on the defensive gave out. 
They looked below and saw their canoe floating away 
with a hostile Huron in it. All hope of escape from 
that quarter was gone. Destruction was before them, or 
worse, a horrid captivity. It was Cora who then showed 
true heroism, urging the scout and the Mohicans to make 
speed to her father, General Munro, and urge him to the 
rescue. Haw T keye and his friend Chingachgook saw no 
hope of rescue in any other way; and commending her 
for her wisdom, they dropped into the stream to make 
for Munro's headquarters. Uncas lingered in immovable 
composure. Cora urged him also, saying: — 

" Go to my father, as I have said. . . . Tell him to 
trust you with the means to buy the freedom of his 
daughters. Go ! 't is my wish, 't is my prayer, that you 
will go!" 

With noiseless step he crossed the rock, and dropped 
into the troubled stream. Cora entreated Hey ward to go 
also, but he did not heed her entreaties. The two sisters 
retired into the inner cavern, and Heyward, seeing all 
things seemingly peaceful, decided that the surest means 
of safety for himself and David Gamut, the singing mas- 



292 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

ter, who had been his companion in travel the day 
before, and who had received a blow that had disabled 
him, was also in the cave, and they entered it and were 
hidden from view. David took out his pitch-pipe and 
began a melody of exceeding sweetness. They were all 
soothed and comforted by the music, when a yell burst 
into the air without that sent a thrill of horror through 
them. The outer cave was entered and demolished, but 
the inner one was undiscovered. The Indians left the 
place, and Hey ward felt they were again safe. Alice, in 
the act of returning thanks, glanced upward, and beheld 
Magua, or Le Renard Subtil, the Indian runner, gazing 
through a small opening into their retreat. Soon his eyes 
discovered them, and upon his giving a prolonged yell, 
the Indians answered him, and returned to the cave. 
Now were they captives indeed, with no hope of mercy 
from their savage captors. The party were led to the 
canoe, which had been secured by the Indians. 

When the pilot chosen for the task of guiding the 
canoe had taken his station, the whole band plunged 
again into the river, the vessel glided down the current, 
and in a few moments the captives found themselves on 
the south bank of the stream nearly opposite to the point 
where they had struck it the preceding evening. The 
band now divided. The horses of the captives were led 
from the cover of the woods. The chief, mounting the 
charger of Heyward, led the way directly across the river, 
followed by most of his people, leaving the prisoners in 
charge of six savages, at whose head was Le Renard 
Subtil. 

Heyward and his friends were taken in a course directly 
opposite to that leading to Fort William Henry. Hey- 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 293 

ward tried to work upon the feelings of Le Renard, telling 
him of the grief of the white father, Munro, over the loss 
of his daughters. A remarkable expression passed over 
the Indian's face. Heyward had spoken to him of the 
reward he would receive should he rescue and deliver 
them in safety, but the gleam on his face was not one of 
avarice, — it was more. 

"Go," he said, "go to the dark-haired daughter, and 
^ay, Magua waits to speak. The father will remember 
what the child promises." 

Supposing that some additional pledge would be de- 
manded, Heyward led Cora to him. Le Renard motioned 
with his hand for him to withdraw, saying, "When the 
Huron talks to the women, his tribe shut their ears." 
Heyward withdrew, and the Indian recounted the events 
of his life to Cora, not forgetting to tell her of having 
been a soldier under her father's command, and of the 
flogging he had received by Munro's order on the occa- 
sion of his having become intoxicated. Revenge burned 
within him, and he had a proposal to make. 

"When Magua left his people, his wife was given to 
another chief; he has now made friends with the Hurons, 
and will go back to the graves of his tribe, on the shores 
of the great lake. Let the daughter of the English chief 
follow and live in his wigwam forever." 

Cora listened to his revolting proposal, but retained her 
self-command, knowing well how much depended on her 
prudence. Her reply did not satisfy Le Subtil, and he 
answered : — 

" When the blows scorched the back of the Huron, he 
would know 7 where to find a woman to feel the smart. 
The daughter of Munro w r ould draw his water, hoe his 



294 THE LAST OP THE MOHICANS. 

corn, and cook his venison. The body of the gray-head 
would sleep among his cannon, but his heart would lie 
within reach of the knife of Le Subtil." 

Scorn and indignation governed her reply. The 
Indian answered this bold defiance by a ghastly smile, 
that showed an unaltered purpose, while he motioned 
her away, as if to close the conference forever. He went 
back to his comrades, and in an address he recounted 
their unavenged wrongs, urging them to requite them, 
and put the question, " What shall be said to the old men 
when they ask us for scalps, and we have not a hair 
from a white head to give them?" He pointed out 
their means of vengeance, and in a moment the savages 
seized Heyward and David, and bound them securely. 
Cora and Alice were also bound, and again Le Subtil 
made his hideous proposal to Cora: — 

"Say; shall I send the yellow hair to her father, and 
will you follow Magua to the great lakes, to carry his 
water, and feed him with corn?" 

She spurned his offer for her own sake; and when she 
told her friends of his base proposition, and that they 
might be free if she would consent to be his wife, Hey- 
ward indignantly refused any good that might come to 
himself through such a sacrifice. Alice, with the love of 
life full upon her, wavered for a moment, but, her better 
nature mastering, she answered firmly, — 

"No, no, no; better that we die as we have lived, to- 
gether ! " 

"Then die! " shouted Magua, and hurled his tomahawk 
at the innocent girl. 

Heyward could not stand this unmoved, as the ax cut 
off some of her hair and lodged firmly in the tree above 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 295 

her head, and he burst his bonds .and rushed upon 
another Indian, who was preparing to repeat the blow. 
They grappled, and fell to the earth together. Hey ward 
was pressed to the earth, and saw the Indian's knife 
gleaming above his head, but just then a whistling 
sound rushed past him, he heard the sharp crack of a 
rifle, and his antagonist fell dead at his side. Hawkeye 
and Uncas and his father had not gone to the bend 
of the river, but lay concealed under its bank, and 
hearing through the stillness of the region the sounds 
of their friends' capture, had turned back to their relief. 
They arrived just in time to rescue them. The Indians 
were all killed in the contest that followed, all excepting 
Le Renard. In a hand-to-hand encounter with Ching- 
achgook, he simulated defeat; and when he was near the 
edge of the plain to which he had gradually drawn his 
antagonist, he fell backward without motion and seem- 
ingly without life, then, instantly leaping upon his feet, 
made his escape. 

The party soon after started towards Munro's camp. 
They met danger on the way, but during the day came 
within the boundaries of the French, and from a moun- 
tain they saw the clear waters of the Horican in the dis- 
tance. They moved still farther north, and the ramparts 
and low buildings of William Henry appeared in sight. 
Coming nearer, the quick eyes of Hawkeye saw prepara- 
tions for war, and he exclaimed, "Montcalm has already 
filled the woods with his accursed Iroquois." Danger was 
before them, danger was all around, as pickets were 
stationed between them and the fort in every direction. 
Montcalm had invested the place. A crashing sound was 
heard, and a cannon ball entered the thicket. Uncas, 



296 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

the ever watchful, commenced speaking to the scout in 
the Delaware tongue. A crisis was at hand, and some- 
thing desperate must be done to secure their safety. The 
dense fog from the lake enveloped them, and they mis- 
took the direction of the fort and started backwards to the 
woods, but the mistake was soon rectified. By this time 
their presence was discovered and they were hotty pur- 
sued by the French. They knew that this was no time 
for hesitation, and hurried onwards. They heard an 
eager pursuer give an order in French, when suddenly a 
voice above them exclaimed: — 

"Stand firm, and be ready, my gallant 60ths! Wait to 
see the enemy, fire low, and sweep the glacis." 

"Father! father!" exclaimed a piercing cry from out 
the mist; "it is I! Alice, thy own Elsie! Spare, 0! save 
your daughters ! " 

" Hold ! " shouted the former speaker, in the awful tones 
of parental agony. "'Tis she! God has restored me my 
children! Throw open the sally-port; to the field, 60ths, 
to the field; pull not a trigger, lest ye kill my lambs! 
Drive off these dogs of France with your steel." He 
rushed out of the body of the mist, and folded them to 
his bosom, and exclaimed in the peculiar accent of 
Scotland: — 

" For this I thank thee, Lord ! Let danger come as it 
will, thy servant is now prepared ! " 

In the next few days events of importance crowded 
thick and fast upon those entrenched behind the walls of 
William Henry. There was one which concerned Major 
Heyward which must not be omitted— his declaration of 
love for Alice Munro, and his request for her father's 
sanction to their union. There was another which 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 297 

touched the heart of every soldier in the gallant 60th 
— a letter from General Webb to Munro, which had 
been taken from Hawkeye, who was now a prisoner of 
the French, and which Montcalm handed to Munro and 
Hey ward in a conference they had with him, in which 
he advised a speedy surrender, urging in the plainest 
language, as a reason, the utter impossibility of his send- 
ing a single man to their rescue. Nothing remained to 
be done but to capitulate. Montcalm was too honorable 
to profit by the defeat of Munro, and the treaty stipulated 
that the garrison were to retain their arms, their colors, 
and their baggage, and consequently, according to mili- 
tary opinion, their honor. 

Next morning the English soldiers, three thousand in 
number, were soon in motion, and passed out of the fort. 
On their way they passed a group of stragglers who were 
engaged in contention, and among them Cora discovered 
the form of Le Renard. He gave the well-known whoop, 
and more than two thousand raving savages broke from 
the forest at the signal. The horrors that succeeded are 
too revolting to dwell upon. Magua captured Cora and 
Alice, and bore them back to the mountain-top whither 
once before they had been carried by the friendly scout. 
David Gamut followed them. The terrible engagement 
between the savages and the English is known in history 
as The Massacre of William Henry. 

The third day after the massacre, five men might have 
been seen making their way along the path leading to 
the Hudson. The party was made up of Munro and 
Heyward, the scout, Hawkeye, and Uncas and his father. 
They were in search of Cora and Alice. They passed 
heaps of the dead, and looked upon them with horror. 



298 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

Uncas suddenly darted ahead, and returned bearing a 
fragment of the green veil that Cora wore. 

"My child!" said ivXunro, speaking quickly and wildly; 
" give me my child ! " 

"Uncas will try," was the short and touching answer. 

The young Mohican darted away again, and raised a 
cry of success as he saw another piece of the veil flutter- 
ing from a tree. They were now on the trail, and per- 
ceived a footprint, which, on examining it closely, Uncas 
pronounced to be that of Le Eenard Subtil. They found 
the pitch-pipe of David dangling from a tree; then an- 
other footprint, which they knew must be Cora's, and 
then a trinket which belonged to Alice. They went back 
to the ruins of William Henry to rest during the night, 
preparatory to starting in the morning on what might 
prove to be a long and weary search. In the evening 
Hawkeye and Heyward went to the side of the fort that 
looked toward the Hudson. After their success the 
French army had moved on, and there was no danger to be 
apprehended from them. Heyward detected noises on the 
plain and called the scout's attention to them. He called 
Uncas, knowing that his senses were more acute than his 
own, who vanished from their sight as soon as they told 
him of the sounds they had heard. He returned, bearing 
the scalp of an Oneida whom he had shot. 

In the morning they entered a canoe and rowed up the 
lake, and landed on the sterile and rugged district which 
separates the tributaries of Champlain from those of the 
Hudson, the Mohawk, and the St. Lawrence. After many 
hours of laborious travel, the scout called a halt for the 
night. In the morning they resumed their journey. 
They felt that Le Renard was bearing his captives north, 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 299 

and the scout and Uncas were alive to every sign of a 
trail, which they had .so far failed to discover. At last 
they were rewarded — Uncas had discovered that some 
heavy animal had passed. "See!" he said, "the dark- 
hair has gone towards the frost." Better than that, they 
moved on and came upon David Gamut, painted and 
dressed like an Indian, who gave them all the informa- 
tion they needed. Munro's daughters were safe and were 
well treated, and were being conveyed, without any espe- 
cial haste, to Canada. Le Renard, or Magua, had reached 
an encampment of his people, and had separated his 
prisoners. Alice was with the Hurons, and Cora was 
thought to be with a tribe of the Dela wares not far away. 
Magua and his men had that day gone on a moose hunt, 
and David, whose power of song had conquered the sav- 
ages, could come and go at his own free will. Hawkeye 
tapped his forehead, to indicate that there were other 
reasons why he was not molested. After he had told 
them everything of moment, the scout advised that he go 
back and remain with the tribe, and intimate to Cora and 
Alice that their friends were in pursuit. Hey ward decided 
to accompany him in the disguise of an Indian, painted 
as a buffoon, in the hope of rescuing Alice; and as such 
he, with the singer, started to the camping ground of the 
open enemies of the English — the Hurons. 

Shortly after the arrival of Heyward and David, Uncas, 
having fallen into a snare, was brought into the same 
camp, a prisoner. No quarter could be expected from 
Le Renard, who was a powerful chief of the tribe, and 
who came back from the hunt and seated himself among 
the warriors. The captive Uncas stood near him, but he 
paid no attention to him while he indulged in the 



300 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

pleasures of his pipe. When through with that, he arose 
and glanced for the first time at Uncas. Their eyes 
met, and in the bold look neither man quailed before 
the other. Le Renard decided that the captive should 
die; and after he had harangued his men, one of them 
arose and, with a yell like a demon, twirled his battle-ax 
above the head of Uncas, but the arm of Le Renard was 
raised, and turned it from its course. Uncas was to be 
held for greater indignities, and was not to die until the 
morrow. 

Heyward, in his fanciful disguise and assumed char- 
acter, had in some way attained the reputation of possess- 
ing healing powers, and was taken to a cavern where a 
young woman lay ill of some disease that baffled the 
skill of the medicine men. A bear went along with him 
and his guide and entered the cave, and made demon- 
strations of friendliness to him, of which he was in fear ; 
but seeing that his companion seemed at ease, he made 
no effort to get rid of the animal. His guide left him 
alone with the woman to practice any incantations he 
might see proper, and the seeming bear discovered itself 
to him as no other than Hawk eye, who by unmistakable 
proof assured him that Alice, surrounded by plunder 
from William Henry, was in an inner room of the cave, 
having been put there for security. 

Heyward immediately went to Alice, and they were talk- 
ing together, when all at once they were confronted by 
the malignant face of Le Renard Subtil, who had come in 
by a private entrance. They found that he meditated 
no immediate violence, and that his intentions were but 
to secure Heyward as an additional prisoner. Directly a 
growl caught his ear, and the bear appeared. When Le 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 301 

Renard came within reach, the bear suddenly extended 
its forelegs and held him in a tight grasp. Hey ward, 
seizing a stout buckskin thong, bound him so that there 
was no escape. He was bound securely and gagged. 
Alice was overcome by fear and had to be carried out in 
Heyward's arms. The relatives of the sick woman had 
gathered outside the cave, and it was only by strategy 
that Hawkeye and Heyward escaped with their burden. 
When they had passed the bounds of the camp, Hawkeye 
pointed out to Heyward the way of escape. "This path 
will lead you to the brook," he said; "follow its northern 
bank until you come to a fall; mount the hill on your 
right, and you will see the fires of the other people. There 
you must go and demand protection; if they are true 
Delawares you will be safe. Go, and Providence be with 
you." 

Uncas, in the camp of the enemy, was bound hand and 
foot by strong and painful withes. The scout made his 
way back into the Indian encampment, and in passing 
an unfinished hut found David Gamut, who led him to 
the lodge where Uncas lay. Going in in his unique dis- 
guise, the captive did not recognize him. He took no 
notice of him as a bear, but when he heard him make a 
peculiar hissing sound, he uttered, in a deep, suppressed 
voice, "Hawkeye." The scout induced him to array him- 
self in the shaggy skin, after he had been unbound. 
Hawkeye having exchanged clothing with David and as- 
sumed the role of singer, he and Uncas left the lodge and 
were soon out of immediate danger. 

The rage of the Hurons, when they found that they 
had been outwitted, was dangerous, and they vowed re- 
taliation* At the cavern there was great excitement. 



302 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

The relatives of the sick woman waited for some time 
after Heyward had left, and when they went into the 
room where she lay on her rude bed, they found her dead. 
A dark-looking object was seen rolling out of another 
apartment, which proved to be Magua, who told them of 
all that had happened in the cavern, and of Alice's escape. 
Pursuers were soon on the trail of the fugitives. Magua 
had early discovered that in retaining the person of Alice, 
he possessed the most effectual check on Cora. When 
they parted, therefore, he kept the former within reach of 
his hand, consigning the one he most valued to the keep- 
ing of their allies. Alice was gone and he must try to 
recover her. He went to the camp of the Delawares, 
where he had put Cora for safe keeping, expecting to find 
Alice also there. Tamenund, a patriarch of great age, 
presided at the councils of the tribe. With the cunning 
of all the eloquence of which he was master, Le Subtil 
endeavored to win their favor, and was successful. He 
presented to the patriarch his claims to Cora and the 
escaped captives, and as the Hurons and Delawares were 
at peace, his claims were sustained. 

The intercourse of the sisters in the short time they 
were together was loving and tender. Their separation 
was cruel and heartrending. Cora stood foremost among 
the prisoners, entwining her arms in those of Alice, in 
the tenderness of sisterly love. The scout and Heyward 
were bound, and awaited the fate before them. Cora 
plead for herself and her friends, but it was of no avail. 

"There is yet one of thine own people who has not 
been brought before thee; before thou lettest the Huron 
depart in triumph, hear him speak," she said to Tam- 
enund. 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 303 

Then the waving multitude opened and shut again, 
and Uncas stood in the living circle. Tamenund uttered 
words that were very uncomplimentary to Uncas, and in 
his reply the young Indian stung his tribe to the quick. 
Twenty knives gleamed in the air, and as many warriors 
sprang to their feet at this biting, and perhaps merited, 
retort. His clothes were torn from him, and he was about 
to be led to the stake; but suddenly this cruel work was 
arrested, for on the bosom of the captive was seen a small 
tortoise, beautifully tattooed, the presence of which saved 
him. He understood his power, and like to a king he 
stepped in front of them, and said: — 

"Men of the Lenni Lenape! my race upholds the 
earth. Your feeble tribe stands on my shell ! . . . My 
race is the grandfather of nations ! " 

"AYho art thou?" demanded the patriarch. 

"Uncas, the son of Chingachgook, a son of the great 
Unamis. . . . The blood of the turtle has been in many 
chiefs, but all have gone back into the earth from whence 
they came, except Chingachgook and his son," said Uncas. 

" Our wise men have often said that two warriors of the 
unchanged race were in the hills of the Yengeese [Eng- 
lish]; why have their seats at the council fires of the 
Delawares been so long empty ? " returned the sage. 

The superior rank of Uncas saved him, and through 
him all the others, except Cora, were also saved. 

All that Uncas could do, and even Hawk eye's offer of 
himself as her substitute, could not save Cora. After 
commending Alice to Heyward's care, and embracing the 
almost insensible girl, with a tearless eye and a proud 
step the captive walked off with the man whom her 
whole being loathed, Le Renard Subtil. 



304 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

The instant Magua and Cora were out of sight, the mul- 
titude left behind became tossed and agitated by fierce and 
powerful passion, and preparations were begun to accom- 
pany Uncas to the field. War was declared against the 
Hurons, and Uncas was placed at the head of the Dela- 
wares. Magua put Cora in a cave and appeared in front 
of his own tribe of savages. To obtain the release of the 
beautiful girl and wreak his vengeance on the Hurons, was 
what had incited Uncas to warlike action. When the 
opposing tribes met, the charge was one of terrible 
cruelty and carnage. Uncas singled out Le Subtil and 
followed him in chase to the mouth of the cave already 
mentioned, Hawkeye, Heyward, and David pressing in 
his footsteps. Magua fled through the subterranean pas- 
sages, Uncas and the white men following. A white robe 
was seen fluttering in the further extremity of a passage 
that seemed to lead up the mountain. 

" 'T is Cora ! " exclaimed Heyward, in a voice in which 
horror and delight were wildly mingled. 

"Cora! Cora!" echoed Uncas, bending forward like a 
deer. 

" 'T is the maiden!" shouted the scout. "Courage, 
lady; we come! — we come!" 

They could see that she was being borne along by two 
savages, whom Magua directed in their flight. But the 
Hurons were losing ground in the race, — the Delawares 
were almost upon them, — and Magua halted. He drew 
his knife. "Woman," he said to Cora, "choose; the 
wigwam or the knife of Le Subtil ! " Her reply was, 
" I am thine! do with me as thou seest best." 

Again he commanded her to choose. She answered 
not. But just then a piercing cry was heard above them, 




" Uncas appeared, leaping frantically, from a fearful height, upon the ledge. 
20 



306 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

and Uncas appeared, leaping frantically, from a fearful 
height, upon the ledge. Magua recoiled a step; and one 
of his assistants, profiting by the chance, sheathed his 
own knife in the bosom of Cora. 

Magua, maddened, sprang upon Uncas and buried his 
knife in his back. Uncas arose from the blow and struck 
the murderer of Cora to his feet, in which effort he spent 
all his remaining strength. Le Subtil seized the unre- 
sisting arm of his foe, and passed his knife into his bosom 
three several times, before his victim, still keeping his 
gaze riveted on his enemy with a look of inextinguish- 
able scorn, fell dead at his feet. 

Magua uttered a fierce, wild, joyous cry over the 
death of his enemy, and leaped forward to gain the 
height of the mountain. A rock fell, and looking up he 
saw the angry face of the singer, David Gamut. He 
avoided him, and springing over a fissure, reached a 
place where he need not fear him. The eyes of Hawkeye 
watched his every movement. He saw that one more 
bound would carry Magua to safety, and saw that he 
made the leap and fell short of it. Summoning all his 
powers, Magua renewed the attempt to scale the preci- 
pice, but the scout, watching the most favorable time, 
aimed his rifle at him and fired. The arms of the 
Huron relaxed, and his body fell back a little. Turning 
a relentless look on his enemy, he shook a hand in grim 
defiance. But his hold loosened, and his dark person 
was seen cutting the air with its head downwards, for a 
fleeting instant, until it glided past the fringe of shrub- 
bery which clung to the mountain, in its rapid flight to 
destruction. 

The sun found the Lenape, on the succeeding day, a 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 307 

nation of mourners. Six Delaware girls strewed sweet- 
scented herbs and forest flowers on a litter of fragrant 
plants, that, under a pall of Indian robes, supported all 
that now remained of the ardent, high-souled, and gen- 
erous Cora. At her feet sat her aged father in the deso- 
lation of his grief. Gamut stood near, and Heyward, too, 
and watched the touching ceremony. Another group was 
opposite, in which the body of Uncas appeared, seated as in 
life, and arrayed in the most gorgeous ornaments that the 
wealth of the tribe could furnish. Chingachgook was 
placed directly in front of the body of his boy. The 
Mohican warrior had kept a steady, anxious look on the 
cold and senseless countenance of his son. So unchanged 
was his attitude that it was hard to distinguish the living 
from the dead but for the occasional gleamings of a 
troubled spirit, that shot athwart the dark visage of the 
bereaved father. The scout and the aged patriarch 
Tamenund were near by. 

The funeral rites, according to the custom of the 
Indians, were long and impressive. The women took 
up the chant in honor of the dead, and the sounds were 
singularly soft and wailing. Addresses were made to 
Cora and Uncas as though they were living, and they 
admonished Uncas to be kind to her. Clothing their 
language in their peculiar imagery, they betrayed that 
they had discovered the love of Uncas for Cora. They 
made tender allusions to the sad Alice, who wept in a 
lodge adjacent. Warriors pressed near Uncas in suc- 
cession, and sang or spoke their tributes to the departed. 
The lips of Chingachgook had so far parted as to 
announce that it was the monody of the father that 
followed the dirge of the warriors. At last the funeral 



308 THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 

rites were over. An aide of Montcalm, with his guard, 
had arrived to convey Munro and his party to the British 
army, and they passed out of the sight of their friends, 
the Delawares. The scout was the only white person 
left behind. Chingachgook was now the object of com- 
mon attention. Hawkey e attached himself to the lonely 
old man, saying: — 

"If ever I forget the lad who has so often fou't at my 
side in war, and slept at my side in peace, may He who 
made us all, whatever may be our color or our gifts, for- 
get me! The boy has left us for a time; but, Sagamore, 
you are not alone." 

At the close of Uncas' funeral ceremonies, the patriarch 
addressed the assembly. "It is enough," he said. "Go, 
children of the Lenape, the anger of the Manitou is not 
done. Why should Tamenund stay ? The pale faces are 
masters of the earth, and the time of the red men has 
not yet come again. My day has been too long. In the 
morning I saw the son of Unamis happy and strong; and 
yet, before the night has come, have I lived fcc see the 
last warrior of the wise race of the 'Mohican* '* 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

1804-1864. 



Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in 1804, in the 
town of Salem, Massachusetts. He was educated at 
Bowdoin College. Among his classmates was the poet 
Longfellow, who in after years said of the product of 
his gifted pen, "It is as clear as running waters are; 
indeed, his words are but as stepping-stones, upon which, 
with free and youthful bound, his spirit crosses and 
recrosses the bright and rushing stream of thought." 

Hawthorne's power to awaken an intense interest in 
his readers is unsurpassed by any author; his style is 
as transparent and beautifully fresh as is the autumnal 
sunrise. 

In 1850 he published "The Scarlet Letter," a fasci- 
nating story of early New England life. This at once 
raised its author to the first rank among American 
writers of fiction. The following year he published 
" The House of the Seven Gables," about which, in a letter 
to a friend, he wrote, "'The House of the Seven Gables/ 
in my opinion, is better than 'The Scarlet Letter.'" 
His earliest writings appeared, however, in 1832, nearly 
twenty years before. In 1837 he published the famous 
collection of "Twice-Told Tales," so called because they 
had previously appeared in periodicals or other publi- 
cations. 

Another delightful volume of tales he published in 

309 



310 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

1846, entitled "Mosses from an Old Manse." This 
volume was written in Concord, Massachusetts, whither 
he moved in 1843, occupying an old parsonage, or manse, 
from the windows of which its early inmates looked, in 
April, 1775, upon the first battle of the Revolution. 

In 1853 Mr. Hawthorne was appointed by President 
Pierce United States Consul at Liverpool, which office 
he held four years. 

That his ambition from early boyhood was to become 
an author is evinced by a letter written to his mother, 
in which he asked her if she would not like him to 
become an author and have his books read in England. 

He died in 1864. 




Home of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Concord, Mass. 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 



Principal Characters. 

Hester Prynne, condemned to wear the Scarlet Letter. 
Pearl ; Daughter of Hester Prynne. 
Arthur Dimmesdale, Hester Prynne's Pastor. 
Roger Chilling worth, Physician, a Stranger in Boston. 
Rev. John Wilson, Boston's oldest Clergyman. 
Governor Bellingham. 



312 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 

By Nathaniel Hawthorne. 



The summer sun shone brightly one morning, two 
centuries ago, upon a crowd of men, intermixed with 
many women, who had gathered in front of the old 
prison in the chief historic town of the Puritans to wit- 
ness something which possessed for them unusual interest. 
The eyes of all were fixed upon the ponderous prison- 
door, and an onlooker, not possessing even a moderately 
critical eye, might have observed that the feminine por- 
tion of the motley multitude seemed to be awaiting 
developments with more anxiety than did any of the 
stronger sex. Listening intently to their conversation, 
one could gather that some sentence of the law was to be 
inflicted upon one of their sisterhood. Their tones and 
remarks bore the stamp of deep bitterness, no sweet char- 
ity being mixed with what they had to say. A man near 
by heard what they had said, and exclaimed, in rebuke: — 

"'Mercy on us, . . . is there no virtue in woman, 
save what springs from a wholesome fear of the gallows? 
. . . Hush, now, gossips! for the lock is turning in 
the prison-door, and here comes Mistress Prynne herself.' " 

The prison-door was flung open and the town beadle 
emerged, clad in his somber gown, his sword hanging at 
his side, and his staff of office in his hand. His august 
presence hushed the expectant assembly. " Stretching forth 
the official staff in his left hand, he laid his right upon 

313 



314 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

the shoulder of a young woman, whom he thus drew for- 
ward; until, on the threshold of the prison-door, she 
repelled him, by an action marked with natural dignity 
and force of character, and stepped into the open air, as 
if by her own free will. She bore in her arms a child, 
a baby of some three months old, who winked and 
turned aside its little face from the too vivid light of day; 
because its existence, heretofore, had brought it acquainted 
only with the gray twilight of a dungeon, or other dark- 
some apartment of the prison." 

When she stood where she could be plainly seen, she 
made a movement as if she would clasp her baby closely 
to her bosom, but on second thought she teld it on her 
arm, and with a calm look gazed upon those who were 
before her. "On the breast of her gown, in fine red 
cloth, surrounded with an elaborate embroidery and fan- 
tastic flourishes of gold-thread, appeared the letter A. 
It was so artistically done, and with so much fertility and 
gorgeous luxuriance of fancy, that it had all the effect of 
a last and fitting decoration to the apparel which she 
wore; and which was of a splendor in accordance with 
the taste of the age, but greatly beyond what was allowed 
by the sumptuary regulations of the colony." The woman 
upon whom all eyes rested was very handsome, and her 
manners refined and lady-like. Never had she looked 
more beautiful than on this fair day, which was to behold 
her humbled in disgrace before the public. 

The beadle advanced, and wdth the staff made passage- 
way through the crowd of spectators, calling to Hester 
Pry nne, his prisoner, to follow him to the market-place. 
On all sides of her were stern, unyielding men and 
women; in front was a rabble of schoolboys, who gazed 




Hester "stood on the scaffold of the pillory, an infant on her arm, and the 
letter A, in scarlet, . . . upon her bosom." 



316 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

curiously upon everything connected with her. Her 
haughty appearance and proud step did not work in her 
favor. She moved on till she "came to a sort of scaffold, 
at the western extremity of the market-place. It stood 
nearly beneath the eaves of Boston's earliest church, and 
appeared to be a fixture there. ... It was, in short, the 
platform of the pillory"; and here was Hester Prynne to 
stand for a certain time, with her baby, the token of her 
sin and shame, as the gazing-stock of the people, who 
stood in a mass several feet below the platform. The 
Governor and his highest advisers were present, who, 
with the ministers of the town, were gathered upon the 
balcony of the meeting-house. The presence of these 
dignitaries of church and state lent a solemnity to the 
occasion, and poor Hester, who under her assumed 
indifference carried a very human heart with very 
human sensibilities, "felt, at moments, as if she must 
needs shriek out with the full power of her lungs, and 
cast herself from the scaffold down upon the ground, or 
else go mad at once." Over her memory flitted the 
events and scenes of her life — -her native village, her 
happy childhood, her father's kind face, her mother's 
loving care; and "a pale, thin, scholar-like visage, with 
eyes dim and bleared by the lamplight that had served 
them to pore over many ponderous books." And then 
she looked before her and saw "the rude market-place of 
the Puritan settlement, with all the townspeople assem- 
bled and leveling their stern regards at Hester Prynne, — 
yes, at herself, — who stood on the scaffold of the pillory, 
an infant on her arm, and the letter A, in scarlet, . . . 
upon her bosom. . . . The infant and the shame were 
real. . . . All else had vanished ! " 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 317 

In the outskirts of the crowd Hester discerned the 
figure of a man standing near an Indian, and almost at 
the same time the man looked upon Hester. " When he 
found the eyes of Hester Prynne fastened on his own, 
and saw that she appeared to recognize him, he slowly 
and calmly raised his finger, made a gesture with it in 
the air, and laid it on his lips." He turned to the man 
standing nearest him and asked him the meaning of the 
scene before him, stating that he had been a wanderer, 
and one who had met with mishaps and imprisonment 
among the heathen folk where he had been cast, and had 
but just been brought hither by the Indian to be freed 
from captivity. He was answered: — 

" ' Yonder woman, Sir, you must know, was the wife of 
a certain learned man, English by birth, but who had 
long dwelt in Amsterdam, whence, some good time agone, 
he was minded to cross over and cast his lot with us of 
the Massachusetts. To this purpose, he sent his wife 
before him, remaining himself to look after some neces- 
sary affairs. Marry, good Sir, in some two years, or less, 
that the woman has been a dweller here in Boston, no 
tidings have come of this learned gentleman, Master 
Prynne; and his young wife, look you, being left to her 
own misguidance ' " — 

He was interrupted by the stranger, who asked who 
might be the father of her infant, and was told: — 

"'Of a truth, friend, that matter remaineth a riddle. 
. . . Madam Hester absolutely refuseth to speak, and the 
magistrates have laid their heads together in vain. Per- 
adventure the guilty one stands looking on at this sad 
spectacle, unknown of man, and forgetting that God sees 
him.' 



318 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

"'The learned man,' observed the stranger, with an- 
other smile, 'should come himself, to look into the 
mystery.'" 

Hester's townsman added further, that the penalty for 
such sin as hers was death; but, that, considering the 
possibility of her husband being at the bottom of the sea, 
and that her temptation might have been exceptionally 
strong, her punishment was mitigated, and she was 
doomed to stand for but three hours on the pillory plat- 
form, and "'for the remainder of her natural life, to wear 
a mark of shame upon her bosom.' " 

The stranger made some further remark about the 
author of her shame bearing the punishment with the 
poor woman, and ended with the words, thrice repeated, 
which sounded like a prophecy, '"He will be known."' 

Hester Prynne stood with her gaze fixed upon the 
stranger till he disappeared in the crowd. Soon after, 
she heard a voice behind her calling her name in a loud 
and solemn tone. She turned and lifted her eyes to the 
balcony of the meeting-house and beheld the Reverend 
John Wilson, the oldest and most famous of Boston's 
clergymen at that time, who now addressed her in a voice 
which all present could hear: — 

" ' Hester Prynne, I have striven with my young brother 
here, under whose preaching of the word you have been 
privileged to sit,' — here Mr. Wilson laid his hand on the 
shoulder of a pale young man beside him, — 'I have 
sought, I say, to persuade this godly youth, that he should 
deal with you, here in the face of Heaven, and before 
these wise and upright rulers, and in hearing of all the 
people, as touching the vileness and blackness of your 
sin; . . . insomuch that you should no longer hide the 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 319 

name of him who tempted you to this grievous fall. But 
he opposes to me . . . that it were wronging the very nature 
of woman to force her to lay open her heart's secrets in 
such broad daylight, and in presence of so great a multi- 
tude. . . . What say you to it, once again, Brother Dimmes- 
dale ? Must it be thou, or I, that shall deal with this 
poor sinner's soul ? ' " 

Governor Bellingham seconded Reverend Wilson's 
efforts, and the eyes of the whole crowd were fixed 
upon Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, the young clergy- 
man, Hester's pastor, who with a tremulous air leaned 
over the balcony and looked down steadily into her 
upturned eyes and said, addressing her: — 

"' Hester Prynne, thou hearest what, this good man 
says, and seest the accountability under which I labor. 
If thou feelest it to be for thy soul's peace, and that thy 
earthly punishment will thereby be made more effectual 
to salvation, I charge thee to speak out the name of thy 
fellow-sinner and fellow-sufferer ! Be not silent from any 
mistaken pity and tenderness for him. . . . What can 
thy silence do for him, except it tempt him — yea, compel 
him, as it were — to add hypocrisy to sin? Heaven hath 
granted thee an open ignominy. . . . Take heed how 
thou deniest to him — who, perchance, hath not the 
courage to grasp it for himself — the bitter, but whole- 
some, cup that is now presented to thy lips ! ' " 

His sweet, rich voice caused the hearts of all who 
heard him to vibrate with sympathy. Even Hester's 
baby held out its little arms to him. His appeal was so 
direct that everyone expected to hear Hester speak out 
the name of her betrayer, or that the guilty one, were he 
present, would feel the measure of his sin and ascend the 



320 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

scaffold by the side of his victim. Hester stood unmoved. 
Another voice spoke out of the crowd : — 

" ' Speak, woman ! Speak ; and give your child a father ! ' 

'"I will not speak!' answered Hester, turning pale as 
death, but responding to this voice, which she too surely 
recognized. ' And my child must seek a heavenly Father; 
she shall never know an earthly one!' 

" ' She will not speak ! ' murmured Mr. Dimmesdale. . . . 
' Wondrous strength and generosity of a woman's heart! 
She will not speak ! ' " 

Hester stood out the time allotted her for her public 
disgrace, and was then borne back and hidden behind 
the prison portal. The reaction from the nervous tension 
was so great that a physician had to be called in before 
nightfall. The baby, too, was ill. A physician, a stranger, 
the same who had made inquiries regarding Hester in 
the market-place, was ushered into the apartment where 
she was confined. His name was given as Koger Chil- 
lingworth. Hester became quiet in a moment. The 
jailer withdrew. Chillingworth attended to the infant 
first, and soon it, too, was quiet, under the spell of his 
medicine. He mixed a potion for Hester and offered it to 
her. She put it to her lips and then hesitated. Roger 
Chillingworth and Hester Prynne well knew and under- 
stood each other. 

"'If death be in this cup, I bid thee think again, ere 
thou beholdest me quaff it,'" she said. 
. " ' Dost thou know me so little, Hester Prynne ? . . . 
Live, . . . and bear about thy doom with thee, in the eyes 
of men and women, — in the eyes of him whom thou 
didst call thy husband, — in the eyes of yonder child! 
And, that thou may est live, take off this draught.'" 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 321 

Hester Prynne stood in the presence of him who had 
been her lawful husband, and confessed to him, Roger 
Chillingworth, that she had wronged him in marrying 
him when she cared nothing for him; wronged him in 
dishonoring his name, though none in her new home 
knew what it was; yet no persuasions of his could induce 
her to tell him the name of her baby's father. Roger 
confessed that he had done the first wrong when he per- 
suaded her to marry him, a man whose years and habits 
of life and thought were incompatible with hers, and 
then he said with stern, unmistakable resolve: — 

"'I shall seek this man, as I have sought truth in 
books. . . . Sooner or later, he must needs be mine. . . . 
There are none in this land that know me. Breathe not, 
to any human soul, that thou didst ever call me husband ! 
Here ... I shall pitch my tent. ... I find here a 
woman, a man, a child, amongst whom and myself there 
exist the closest ligaments. No matter whether of love 
or hate; no matter whether of right or wrong! Thou 
and thine, Hester Prynne, belong to me. My home is 
where thou art, and where he is. But betray me not!"' 

Hester Prynne was once more free, and breathed God's 
sunshine outside the prison walls. There was some 
strange tie or fascination that kept her, an outcast, near 
to the place where she had been dishonored, and where 
the finger of the public was always pointed at her in 
scorn. She could not, would not, break the links that 
bound her to her New World home. She would not go 
back to England, but on the outskirts of the town, in a 
little old cottage long since abandoned by him who had 
built it, she made for herself and her little girl a home. 

She had some means, and with the help of her beautiful 
21 



322 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

needlework she kept her household in simple comfort; 
and it may seem strange while we tell it, but in the 
Puritan age there were fashions — gay, costly fashions — 
peculiar to the times; and Hester Prynne, with the scarlet 
ever on her bosom, was the designer and maker of gar- 
ments for ceremonies of pomp and state and almost every 
noted occasion. But there is not an instance on record 
where " her skill was called in aid to embroider the white 
veil which was to cover the pure blushes of a bride." 

Her clothing was always plainly made, and was of the 
coarsest material; but that of her child, whom she named 
Pearl, was gay, and made fancifully, a style that accorded 
well with the child's peculiar type of beauty. All the 
money that Hester made, over and above what was 
required for the support of herself and Pearl, was spent 
in works of charity; her spare time was given to making 
garments for those poorer than herself; and, such is 
human nature, very often did she receive insults from 
the very ones whom she befriended. While Hester was 
in the world, she was made to feel by those around about 
her that she was not of it, — that she was banished from 
its hopes and its interests. Every day, Sabbath-day as 
well as week-day, was she made to feel her sin. There 
was no forgiveness for her in the breasts of the stern 
Puritans around her. Even "clergymen paused in the 
street to address words of exhortation, that brought a 
crowd, with its mingled grin and frown, around the poor, 
sinful woman. If she entered a church, trusting to share 
the Sabbath smile of the Universal Father, it was often 
her mishap to find herself the text of the discourse." 

Pearl, her beautiful, willful, independent Pearl, whom 
Hester herself could not understand, was a being for 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 323 

whom there was no companionship, no counterpart, in 
the world of children around her. She, too, was set apart. 
Children did not seek her; she did not seek the prim 
little children of the settlement, — prim even in their 
plays; her mother was her only companion. From a 
tiny baby the scarlet letter had excited her curiosity. 
She asked many perplexing questions. One day she 
asked her mother of her origin. 

"'Thy Heavenly Father sent thee!"' said Hester. 

" ' He did not send me ! ' cried she, positively. ' I have 
no Heavenly Father!'" 

The community had sought in vain to discover the pa- 
ternity of the child. Hester's secret remained safe in her 
own breast; and at last there were those who circulated 
the story that the poor little unfortunate was the offspring 
of a demon. Aye, tnev went further than this; there 
were those among these good people who argued that for 
the good of Hester's soul her elfish child should be taken 
from her and transferred to other hands, better fitted to 
rear her. It was said that Governor Bellingham was 
among the busiest of these, and Hester, hearing the 
reports, took Pearl and waited on this official. It hap- 
pened that with him this morning were the venerable 
pastor, John Wilson, Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale, and 
Roger Chillingworth, who for three years past had been 
settled in the town, and who had achieved great reputa- 
tion in the community as being a skillful physician. He 
had been much with Mr. Dimmesdale lately, as it was 
rumored that he was suffering bodily from overwork, and 
needed a physician. 

Pearl, in her fantastic dress of scarlet, was the first to 
attract the attention of the dignified men when they 



324 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

entered the hall where Hester and her child waited for 
the summons of the Governor. Governor Bellingham 
looked sternly upon her, and made remarks not at all 
complimentary to the child. Mr. Wilson, kind man that 
he was, spoke of Pearl's appearance as reviving memories 
of beautiful painted windows that he had seen across the 
sea. Arthur Dimmesdale said nothing. The older min- 
ister was the first to recognize Pearl. 

"'This is the selfsame child of whom we have held 
speech together; and behold here the unhappy woman, 
Hester Prynne, her mother!'" 

Governor Bellingham (as history testifies) was not 
given to tenderness. Turning to Hester with the stern- 
ness characteristic of him, he said: — 

"Hester Prynne, there hath been much question con- 
cerning thee, of late. The point hath been weightily 
discussed, whether we, that are of authority and influence, 
do well discharge our consciences by trusting an immortal 
soul, such as there is in yonder child, to the guidance of 
one who hath stumbled and fallen, amid the pitfalls of 
this world. Speak thou, the child's own mother! Were 
it not, thinkest thou, for thy little one's temporal and 
eternal welfare that she be taken out of thy charge, and 
clad soberly, and disciplined strictly, and instructed in 
the truths of heaven and earth? What canst thou do 
for the child, in this kind ? ' 

" ' I can teach my little Pearl what I have learned from 
this!' answered Hester Prynne, laying her finger on the 
red token. . . . 'This badge hath taught me — it daily 
teaches me — it is teaching me at this moment — lessons 
whereof my child may be the wiser and better, albeit 
thay can profit nothing to myself.'" 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 325 

Mr. Wilson was deputed by the Governor to question 
Pearl and see if she had been duly instructed in Chris- 
tian principles, and the good old man made the effort to 
draw her to him. Unaccustomed to the touch of anyone 
but her mother, she sprang from him through the open 
window and stood outside, looking intensely at him and 
the others, the very spirit of independence and resistance 
in her every motion. 

Pearl was, to-day, more than usually perverse, and 
gave answers befitting a heathen to the very simple 
questions that were put to her. Governor Bellingham 
was shocked. Roger Chillingworth smiled, and whis- 
pered something to Arthur Dimmesdale. 

" ' This is awful ! ' cried the Governor. ... ' Here is a 
child of three years old, and she cannot tell who made her ! 
. . . Methinks, gentlemen, we need inquire no further.'" 

Hester's excitement w T as intense. She caught Pearl in 
her arms, declaring that she would die rather than be 
parted from her. She appealed to Mr. Dimmesdale, as 
her former pastor, to plead in her behalf. He stepped 
forward tremblingly and nervously and spoke for Hester 
feelingly and eloquently, and not at all in accordance 
with Puritan severity. His plea for Hester prevailed, 
and owing to the nervousness which followed it, he 
withdrew from the group and went nearer the window. 
Something in him had attracted Pearl. She "stole 
softly towards him, and taking hi-s hand in the grasp of 
both her own, laid her cheek against it. . . . The 
minister looked round, laid his hand on the child's head, 
hesitated an instant, and then kissed her brow." 

Roger Chillingworth had determined that in no way 



326 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

should his name be associated with that of Hester 
Prynne. As her husband in the Old World — an un- 
loved husband, it is true — he would not claim her now; 
his name should never be linked with the disgrace that 
would follow her through life. He himself was wear- 
ing an assumed name; both of them had left all of 
their relatives behind them; none in the New World 
knew of their past history. For some reason of his own 
Roger attached himself to the church of Reverend Ar- 
thur Dimmesdale, and to the minister himself. The 
health of the latter was failing, and was the cause of 
anxiety throughout the little settlement. Just at that 
time it was that Roger gave up long journeys, which he 
was accustomed to take, and frequent absences, and set- 
tled permanently with them; and when it became known 
that he had learning and skill in medicine, the more 
devout of the Puritans looked upon it as a kind disposi- 
tion of Providence that he had been sent to Mr. Dimmes- 
dale at so opportune a time. When at last the minister 
consented to receive his aid, they spent much time to- 
gether. They took long walks in the forest and upon 
the seashore, Roger Chillingworth studying his patient 
diligently. We remember what he had told Hester in 
the prison— that he would find out the father of her 
child. He had been diligently searching and had failed. 
He now had another case to study — Arthur Dimmesdale. 
Perhaps he was studying the two cases together — perhaps 
the two cases may yet make one. For while Roger was 
baffled in Mr. Dimmesdale's malady, he could make 
nothing clear out of his data, — which, it must be con- 
fessed, were very meager, — and then, to further his pur- 
pose, he sought lodgment in the same house with his 



THE SCARLET LETTEK. 327 

patient, so that he might, unsuspected, study him more 
carefully and at all hours, and in his different moods. 
Many days was he in the pursuit of the knowledge he 
wished. His patient efforts and skill were, however, to 
be rewarded. He at last found what he sought: Arthur 
Dimmesdale's malady was spiritual, not physical; he bore 
in his heart a terrible secret that was wearing him out. 
Roger Chillingworth, one day, while his patient was 
sleeping, uncovered his bosom and found the key of the 
secret. 

Arthur Dimmesdale's agony of soul was dreadful, 
known only to himself and his God. He had sinned; 
he was being tortured for it. In the secret of his 
chamber he scourged himself; in public he had many 
days of fasting; he kept lonely vigils. At last, one 
night a new form of humiliation seized him. He dressed 
himself in his clerical clothes, and walking to the spot 
where Hester Prynne had been humiliated publicly years 
ago, he mounted the same scaffold upon which she had 
stood, and did penance alone, with himself and his 
Maker, as he supposed. Horror seized him as he stood 
thus, and he shrieked aloud. He saw a glimmering 
light coming up the street. It then drew nearer; it 
proved to be Mr. Wilson returning from the deathbed 
o\' Governor Winthrop. The venerable man passed by 
the scaffold without looking up. Arthur was in terror, 
and yet he could not tear himself from the spot. 
M< lining was advancing and he surely would be dis- 
covered. He painted mental pictures of what would 
follow the incoming of the light, and actually laughed 
aloud at them. He was startled by hearing the laugh 
reechoed. Hester Prynne and Pearl stood before him. 



328 THE SC ABLET LETTER. 

He inquired their errand, and was answered that Gov- 
ernor Winthrop was dead and Hester had been taking 
the measurements of his burial robe. Something impelled 
him to ask her and the child to ascend the scaffold with 
him. Pearl asked him to do strange things. 

" ' Wilt thou stand here with mother and me, to-morrow 
noontide ? . . . Wilt thou promise to take my hand and 
mother's hand, to-morrow noontide ? ' 

" ' Not then, Pearl, but another time. ... At the great 
judgment day. . . . Then, and there, before the judg- 
ment-seat, thy mother, and thou, and I must stand 
together. But the daylight of this world shall not see 
our meeting!'" 

Pearl pointed her finger across the street. There stood 
old Roger Chillingworth. He drew near. He, too, as the 
physician, had been at Governor Winthrop's bedside, and 
was going home. He took Mr. Dimmesdale's hand and 
led him along with him. No need of further investiga- 
tions, — Hester's secret was in his power. 

Time passed. Pearl Prynne was now seven years old. 
The public sentiment towards Hester had changed, though 
the red letter, which it was her doom to wear, proclaimed 
her sin. Her readiness to do good to others in minister- 
ing to the sick and poor; her uncomplaining submission 
to the decree of fate which had set her aside; the pure 
life she had now led for years, brought her a measure of 
respect that she and others had never looked for. " She 
was self-ordained a Sister of Mercy; or, we may rather 
say, the world's heavy hand had so ordained her, when 
neither the world nor she looked forward to this result. 
.... Many people refused to interpret the scarlet A by 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 329 

its original signification. They said that it meant Able; 
so strong was Hester Prynne, with a woman's strength." 

Hester, after her interview on the scaffold with Arthur, 
saw that he w T as threatened w T ith lunacy, if indeed he 
were not already insane, and she determined to meet 
Roger Chillingworth, and through him do what she could 
for Mr. Dimmesdale. She met her former husband soon 
after, by the seashore, and saw that in seven years time 
had wrought sad changes with him also. "In a word, 
old Roger Chillingworth was a striking evidence of 
man's faculty of transforming himself into a devil, if he 
w T ill only, for a reasonable space of time, undertake a 
devil's office." She appealed to him, with all the elo- 
quence of one w T ho was in dead earnest, to loose the power 
which he held on Arthur Dimmesdale and set him free 
from the dread fate that was before him. She did not 
excuse herself for the ruin of the old man's hopes and 
happiness, in having turned away from him. He told 
her that he knew the author of her ruin, and that he 
held Arthur Dimmesdale's fate for weal or woe in his 
hands and could use his power as he wished. She re- 
plied that she would reveal to Arthur Dimmesdale the 
identity of Roger Chillingworth, without regard to the 
consequences. 

The interview was an unsatisfactory one. Roger left 
her with hate rankling in his bosom. She resolved to 
tell Arthur of Roger's true character, and warn him of 
the man who was hourly watching him. She learned 
that the young minister had gone to visit the Apostle 
Eliot, among his Indian friends, and she determined to 
watch for him on his return and meet him in the forest. 
She waited for him, and was not disappointed. Pearl 




" She waited for him, and was not disappointed." 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 331 

strayed away, and Hester was alone with Arthur. She 
told hini of Roger, that he was his enemy, — aye, more, 
she told him why, — that Roger was her husband. She 
warned him to flee from Roger's presence, to quit the 
town where he dwelt, to go where he might yet lead 
a useful life, to give up his real name and make for 
himself another. 

" ' 0, Hester ! . . . I must die here ! There is not the 
strength or courage left me to venture into the wide, 
strange, difficult world, alone!'" 

" He repeated the word. 

"'Alone, Hester!' 

" ' Thou shalt not go alone ! ' answered she, in a deep 
whisper. 

" Then, all was spoken ! " 

"The clergyman resolved to flee, and not alone." 

Before they left the forest their plans for flight were 
matured. A vessel lay in the harbor. It w T as a ship of 
questionable character that had recently arrived from the 
Spanish Main, and was to sail in a few days. Hester 
was to engage passage for two persons and a child, she 
and Arthur meantime making quiet arrangements to 
quit the settlement. 

Arthur Dimmesdale went home and to his study. In 
three days he was to preach the annual Election Sermon, 
— in four days he was to sail away from misery, and 
seek happiness. He tore up the sermon which lay 
unfinished upon his table. He began another. A new 
inspiration guided him, and he wrote as he had never 
written before. Roger Chillingworth entered the room 
next day and was surprised at the change in Arthur, a 
change for the better, surely. Arthur beheld him in his 



332 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

true character, but gave no sign of it. The physician 
offered his aid, but it was declined, Arthur urging that 
he had no further need of it, saying that he thanked 
Roger from his heart for his good deeds, but that he 
could only requite them with his prayers. 

"'A good man's prayers are golden recompense!' re- 
joined old Roger Chillingworth, as he took his leave. 
'Yea, they are the current gold coin of the new Jerusa- 
lem, with the King's own mint-mark on them!'" 

The morning of the day upon which the new Governor 
was to be installed into his office had arrived. From 
every direction came the people, men and women and 
children. Hester Prynne and Pearl were among the crowd, 
the latter, like a gay bird, flitting everywhere, attracting 
attention from all who saw her. "A party of Indians 
stood apart, with countenances of inflexible 
gravity, beyond what even the Puritan aspect could at- 
tain. ... A part of the crew of the vessel from the 
Spanish Main . . . had come ashore to see the 
humors of Election Day. . . . Old Roger Chilling- 
worth, the physician, was seen to enter the market-place, 
in close and familiar talk with the commander of the 
questionable vessel. . . . After parting from the 
physician, the commander of the Bristol ship strolled 
idly through the marketplace; until happening to ap- 
proach the spot where Hester Prynne was standing, he 
appeared to recognize, and did not hesitate to address 
her." What was her sorrow to hear him say that Roger 
Chillingworth also had engaged a passage for himself on 
his vessel. Her Nemesis was bound to follow her. She 
looked ahead some distance and saw Roger standing in 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 333 

the market-place and smiling upon her; a smile which 
"conveyed secret and fearful meaning." 

Heralded hy military music, the great procession moved 
onward to the meeting-house. Reverend Dimmesdale 
preached such a sermon upon the relations between 
Divine and human government as had never been heard 
by the people before. Men, stirred by his eloquence, held 
their breath, and it was not till the august and impressive 
services were over, and they had reached the open air, 
that they could shake off the awe and spell that were 
upon them. Applause for the young minister was heard 
on all sides. His sermon was magnificent. " But, 
throughout it all, and through the whole discourse, there 
had been a certain deep, sad undertone of pathos, which 
could not be interpreted otherwise than as the natural 
regret of one soon to pass away." 

The train of dignitaries were fairly in the market- 
place. Arthur Dimmesdale, having delivered his ser- 
mon, moved along with the crowd; but so feeble did he 
look that Mr. Wilson stepped forward and offered him 
his arm. Its aid was declined. Governor Bellingham 
advanced towards him, but a glance. showed that neither 
were his services needed. The people gazed in awe upon 
their idol, if a Puritan might have an idol. Arthur 
"turned towards the scaffold, and stretched forth his 
arm-. 

"' Hester,' said he, 'come hither! Come, my little 
Pearl!'" 

"The child . . . flew to him, and clasped her arms 
about his knees. Hester Prvnne — slowly, as if impelled 
by inevitable fate, and against her strongest will — like- 
wise drew near, but paused before she reached him. At 



334 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

this instant, old Roger Chillingworth . . . rushed for- 
ward, and caught the minister by the arm. 

"'Madman, hold! what is your purpose?' whispered 
he. ' Wave back that woman ! Cast off this child ! All 
shall be well! Do not blacken your fame, and perish in 
dishonor! I can yet save you! Would you bring infamy 
on your sacred profession ? ' " 

Arthur was firm. He had fought the battle with all 
evil and temptation within him, and was resolved upon 
his course. 

"'Come, Hester, come!"' he cried. "'Support me up 
yonder scaffold!'" 

The excitement of the crowd was intense. They looked, 
but knew not what was coming. "They beheld the 
minister, leaning on Hester's shoulder, and supported by 
her arm around him, approach the scaffold, and ascend 
its steps; while still the little hand of the sin-born child 
was clasped in his." 

'"Is not this better,' murmured he, 'than what we 
dreamed of in the forest?' 

" ' I know not! I know not ! '" Hester hurriedly replied. 
" ' Better? Yea; so we may both die, and little Pearl die 
with us!'" 

" ' Hester, I am a dying man. So let me make haste 
to take my shame upon me.' " 

He stood before the people and addressed them, appeal- 
ing to their love for him, saying : — 

"'At last! — at last! — I stand upon the spot where, 
seven years since, I should have stood; here, with this 
woman, whose arm, more than the little strength where- 
with I have crept hitherward, sustains me, at this dread- 
ful moment, from groveling down upon my face! Lo, 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 335 

the scarlet letter which Hester wears ! Ye have all shud- 
dered at it! Wherever her walk hath been, — wherever, 
so miserably burdened, she may have hoped to find 
repose, — it hath cast a lurid gleam of awe and horrible 
repugnance round about her. But there stood one in the 
midst of you, at whose brand of sin and infamy ye have 
not shuddered ! ... He hid it cunningly from men. . . . 
Now, at the death-hour, he stands up before you! He 
bids you look again at Hester's scarlet letter ! He tells 
you, that ... it is but the shadow of what he bears on 
his own breast, and that even this, his own red stigma, 
is no more than the type of what has seared his inmost 
heart!'" 

He tore away the clothing from his breast, — his secret 
was revealed. " For an instant, the gaze of the horror- 
stricken multitude was concentered on the ghastly mira- 
cle. . . . Then, down he sank upon the scaffold! Old 
Roger Chillingworth knelt down beside him, with a blank, 
dull countenance, out of which the life seemed to have 
departed. 

" ' Thou hast escaped me ! ' he repeated more than once. 
1 Thou hast escaped me ! ' 

"'May God forgive thee!' said the minister. 'Thou, 
too, hast deeply sinned ! ' 

"He withdrew his dying eyes from the old man, and 
fixed them on the woman and the child." 

"'Dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? . . . Hester, 
farewell.'" 

She bent over him and asked if they should not meet 
again, — if beyond this life they might not have hope to 
spend the immortal life together. 

He answered: "'God knows; and He is merciful! 



336 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

He hath proved his mercy, most of all, in my afflictions. 
By giving me this burning torture to bear upon my 
breast! By sending yonder dark and terrible old man, 
to keep the torture always at red-heat! By bringing me 
hither, to die this death of triumphant ignominy before 
the people ! Had either of these agonies been wanting, I 
had been lost forever ! Praised be his name ! His will be 
done! Farewell!'" 

The effort was too mucli for him, and with the last 
word his spirit passed away, to be beyond the power of 
Roger Chillingworth's persecutions, — to be beyond the 
tortures of a guilty, never quiet conscience. In death he 
atoned to Hester for all the wrongs he had inflicted on 
her in life, — in death he stood before the people what he 
was, not what for so many years he had seemed to be. 

It would be hard to describe the feelings of those who 
looked upon this scene upon the scaffold. There was 
one feeling that was common to all — that of awe and 
wonder. When the excitement had become allayed, there 
were those who were standing near the scaffold who 
averred that when Arthur had thrust aside the badge of 
his ministerial office they had seen upon his breast a 
scarlet letter, the very semblance of that worn by 
Hester Prynne, and that it was deeply imprinted in his 
flesh. There were other rumors in reference to his mys- 
terious words uttered upon the scaffold. 

But we turn from the dead to the living in this sad 
drama, and will look upon Eoger Chillingworth first of 
all the actors in it. He had made revenge his pursuit, — it 
was but human that he should seek to be avenged, — and 
had triumphed, but it brought him no happiness. Every 
faculty and energy of his mind and body seemed to 



THE SCARLET LETTER. 337 

desert him; he hid himself from his fellow-beings; he 
gave himself up to the miserable companionship of his 
own mind, and thus died, — died within a twelvemonth 
of Arthur Dimmesdale, leaving to Pearl Prynne all his 
property both in the colony and in England, so that she 
really became the richest heiress in the New World. 

Not long after Roger's decease, Hester took Pearl and 
went back to Europe, and was lost to the interests of the 
little town, which grew in importance each year; though 
such was the spell that attached to the scaffold, and to 
Hester's thatched cottage, as well, that they remained for 
many a day. One afternoon, years after the events 
recorded had occurred, some children were playing near 
the cottage, when a tall woman appeared, at whose touch 
the door opened, and she went in. She turned, and the 
children saw upon her breast a scarlet letter. She came 
alone, — it was Hester, — and took up her abode where no 
one had dwelt since she had gone away. Where Pearl 
was, — whether living or dead, — no one knew. That 
Hester was provided for, that she w T as an object of tender 
solicitude by some one in a foreign land, was well attested 
by the letters which came frequently to her. These let- 
ters bore armorial seals upon them, though of bearings 
unknown to English heraldry. The cottage was not 
bare and cheerless, as it was when Hester had before 
occupied it, but showed evidences of wealth and luxury 
which she seemed to care nothing for. She was contin- 
ually remembered in little gifts by some absent one, and 
these gifts were so dainty that none but delicate fingers 
could have wrought them. Hester was seen embroider- 
ing a baby garment of exceeding richness, — not intended 
for any of her New World friends, — and it was currently 



338 THE SCARLET LETTER. 

believed that Pearl was alive and married and happy, 
and that she would gladly have kept her sad mother 
with her, and made her happy, too, but that Hester pre- 
ferred the cottage where she had borne the punishment of 
her sin, had carried her sorrow, and where she could 
better live a life of penitence than in the far-away place 
where a home had been made for her innocent child. 
Self-imposed, she put upon her the scarlet letter and wore 
it ever afterward. It was no stigma upon the beautiful 
life that she led — a life of consecrated sorrow, of 
unselfishness, of devotion to the interests of others. 
"People brought all their sorrows and perplexities, and 
besought her counsel, as one who had herself gone 
through a mighty trouble. . . . Hester comforted and 
counseled them as best she might." 

So Hester Prynne lived for many a year, and then a 
new grave was made, "near an old and sunken one, in 
that burial-ground beside which King's Chapel has since 
been built. It was near that old and sunken grave, yet 
with a space between, as if the dust of the two sleepers had 
no right to mingle. Yet one tombstone served for both. 
. . . On this simple slab of slate . . . there appeared 
the semblance of an engraved escutcheon. It bore a 
device, a herald's wording of which might serve for a 
motto and brief description of our now concluded legend; 
so somber is it, and relieved only by one ever-glowing 
point of light gloomier than the shadow: — 

"'ON A FIELD, SABLE, THE LETTER A, GULES.'" 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 



Principal Characters. 

Colonel Pyncheon, the Ancestor upon whom a curse was uttered. 

Matthew Maule, who uttered the curse against the Pyncheons. 

Judge Pyncheon, a Descendant of Colonel Pyncheon. 

Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon, a Descendant of Colonel Pyncheon and 
Cousin of Judge Pyncheon. 

Clifford Pyncheon, a Descendant of Colonel Pyncheon, and Brother 
of Miss Hepzibah. 

Miss Phoebe Pyncheon, a Descendant of Colonel Pyncheon j and 
Cousin of Miss Hepzibah, Clifford, and Judge Pyncheon. 

Mr. Holgrave, a Daguerreotypist, a Descendant of Matthew Maule. 

Uncle Venner, an Old Man. 



340 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

By Nathaniel Hawthorne. 



In one of the historic towns of New England stood a 
venerable house whose seven acutely peaked gables and 
other features of architecture spoke of a century gone 
by, — aye, they told the tale of days and people, and the 
vicissitudes of life which befell those people, which, had 
one the time to recount them, would include "a chain 
of events extending over the better part of two centuries," 
and out of which many a romance of thrilling interest 
might be woven. The house stood upon Pyncheon 
Street; it was known as the old Pyncheon House, but, 
for reasons already stated, it was more commonly spoken 
of as the House of the Seven Gables. It, or rather its 
original proprietor, was connected with a time long past 
by a weird chain of circumstances. The spot upon w T hich 
the quaint old pointed house stood, had at another time 
been occupied by another dwelling, and Pyncheon Street 
had previously been known to those who were familiar 
with its locality as Maule's Lane. But the little sea-girt 
town had grown in size and importance, and Colonel 
Pyncheon, a magnate of the place, looked upon the site 
of Matthew Maule's humble dwelling, and the beautiful 
spring of soft and pleasant water which bubbled and 
sparkled in nearness to the cottage, with longing, if not 
with envious, eyes. Colonel Pyncheon presented claims 
of proprietorship to the acre or two of ground which his 

341 



342 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

obscure neighbor claimed and had cleared and cultivated, 
basing his claims on a grant from the legislature, and 
being a man of great means, and being possessed of 
indomitable will and purpose, having taken steps to 
secure the desired spot, prosecuted his claims uninter- 
mittently, though he never obtained possession till the 
death of his opponent, who was executed for the crime 
of witchcraft. In later days many remembered the 
zeal of Colonel Pyncheon in efforts to purge the land 
from the strange delusion as exhibited by Maule, and it 
was well known and commented upon that the hapless 
victim " had recognized the bitterness of personal enmity 
in his persecutor's conduct towards him, and that he 
declared himself hunted to death for his spoil. At the 
moment of execution — with the halter about his neck, 
and while Colonel Pyncheon sat on horseback, grimly 
gazing at the scene — Maule had addressed him from 
the scaffold, and uttered a prophecy, of which history, as 
well as flresidp tradition, has preserved the very words. 
'God/ said the dying man, pointing his finger, with a 
ghastly look, at the undismayed countenance of his enemy, 
— ' God will give him blood to drink.' " 

When the title to the ground was in Colonel Pyncheon's 
hands, he began making preparations to build a family 
mansion, of materials that would endure through many 
generations of Pyncheons. There was much shaking 
of the head among the grave Puritans as they saw the 
ponderous pile spreading out and rising upward, and 
some hinted that the house covered an unquiet grave. 
Others said that the great house "would include the 
home of the dead and buried wizard, and would thus 
afford the ghost of the latter a kind of privilege to haunt 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 343 

its new apartments, and the chambers into which future 
bridegrooms were to lead their brides, and where children 
of the Pyncheon blood were to be born." There were 
other prophesies, but whether the sturdy Puritan heard 
them, we know not. Certain it is, he never heeded them, 
and his mansion grew in stateliness, "a specimen of the 
best and stateliest architecture of a long-past epoch." It 
was a fact of bad omen that the clear, sweet waters of the 
spring became hard and brackish when the mansion was 
built, and that they have ever since remained so. 

It seemed a little curious at the time, that the son 
of Maule should be chosen head carpenter in building 
the great house over the ruins of his birthplace; but the 
last nail had been driven into the house, the finishing 
touches had been given to it by both architect and 
artisan, and its proud owner decided that it should be 
consecrated by both religious and festive ceremonies, the 
latter commensurate with the dignity and grandeur of 
the occasion. The rich and the poor entered the great 
front door and passed into the wide hallway, but the 
etiquette and formalism of the day did not permit their 
associating, and servants ushered each class to the parts 
of the house appointed for them. The absence of the 
host excited unfavorable comment. Many said, and 
rightly too, that he "ought surely to have stood in his 
own hall, and to have offered the first welcome to so 
many eminent personages as here presented themselves 
in honor of his solemn festival." Plebeian and patrician 
— aye, even the high sheriff and the lieutenant-governor 
and the latter^ lady, had arrived, and received no other 
greeting than that given by Colonel Pyncheon's principal 
domestic, "a gray-headed man, of quiet and most respect- 



344 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

ful deportment/' who "found it necessary to explain that 
his master still remained in his study, or private apart- 
ment; on entering which, an hour before, he had 
expressed a wish on no account to be disturbed." 

Time passed, and the lieutenant-governor decided that 
he would bring his host to a sense of his duties. He 
knocked loudly upon the rich panels; he took his sword 
and beat the door, but no sound was heard from the 
master of the feast. A strange feeling possessed the 
guests, and the dignitary, presuming upon his position, 
"tried the door, which yielded to his hand, and was 
flung wide open by a sudden gust of wind that passed, as 
with a loud sigh, from the outermost portal through all 
the passages and apartments of the new house. ... A 
shadow of awe and half-fearful anticipation — nobody 
knew wherefore, nor of what — had all at once fallen over 
the company. 

" They thronged, however, to the now open door, press- 
ing the lieutenant-governor, in the eagerness of their 
curiosity, into the room in advance of them." They 
were horrified at the sight before them. "A little boy 
— the Colonel's grandchild, and the only human being 
that ever dared to be familiar with him — now made his 
way among the guests, and ran towards the seated figure; 
then pausing half-way, he began to shriek with terror. 
. . . The iron-hearted Puritan, the relentless persecutor, 
the grasping and strong-willed man, was dead! Dead, in 
his new house! There is a tradition . . . that a voice 
spoke loudly among the guests, the tones of which were 
like those of old Matthew Maule, the executed wizard, — 
'God hath given him blood to drink! '" There was blood 
on his ruff, and his hoary beard was saturated with it. 




Thus early had Death stepped across the threshold of the House of 
the Seven Gables I" 



346 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

" Thus early had that one guest, — the only guest who 
is certain, at one time or another, to find his way into 
€very human dwelling, — thus early had Death stepped 
across the threshold of the House of the Seven Gables ! " 

There were many theories advanced to account for his 
death, one of which was, that as the lieutenant-governor 
looked into the room he saw a skeleton-hand grasping 
the Colonel's throat, and that it vanished away as he 
advanced farther into the room. " The coroner's jury sat 
Upon the corpse, and, like sensible men, returned an 
unassailable verdict of ' Sudden Death!'" 

His son and heir came "into immediate enjoyment 
of a rich estate, but there was a claim through an Indian 
deed, confirmed by a subsequent grant of the General 
Court, to a vast and as yet unexplored and unmeasured 
tract of Eastern lands. These . . . comprised the 
greater part of what is now known as Waldo County, in 
the State of Maine, and were more extensive than many 
a dukedom, or even a reigning prince's territory, on 
European soil. . . . The bare justice or legality of the 
claim was not so apparent, after the Colonel's decease, as 
it. had been pronounced in his lifetime. Some connecting 
link had slipped out of the evidence, and could not any- 
where be found." 

Colonel Pyncheon's son lacked the force of character 
that had marked his father, and during his lifetime the 
great landed estate remained as it had been during 
Colonel Pyncheon's — in the possession of actual settlers, 
who obtained their titles to it through regrants from the 
powers that were of more recent authority. The claims 
of the Pyncheons from generation to generation amounted 
to nothing tangible, though each one of the name cher- 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 347 

ished an absurd idea of the importance of the family, and 
hoped that he might come into the possession of wealth, 
so that the ancient dignity of the race might be restored. 
The fortunes of the family waned, — the House of the 
Seven Gables yielded to Time's rapacious ravages, but 
each succeeding generation clung to the old ancestral 
home with an undying affection. The law had given 
them a right to the ground on which the house with 
a history stood, but there have been those who had a 
lurking belief that most of the owners of the house had 
doubts about their moral rights to it. There was a story 
told of a large old mirror that hung in one of the rooms, 
and which "was fabled to contain within its depths all 
the shapes that had ever been reflected there"; and there 
was another tale told, "that the posterity of Matthew 
Maule had some connection with the mystery of the 
looking-glass, and that, by what appears to have been 
a sort of mesmeric process, they could make its inner 
region all alive with the departed Pyncheons; not as 
they had shown themselves to the world nor in their 
better and happier hours, but as doing over again some 
deed of sin, or in the crisis of life's bitterest sorrow. . . . 
It was considered, moreover, an ugly and ominous cir- 
cumstance, that Colonel Pyncheon's picture — in obedience, 
it was said, to a provision of his will — remained affixed 
to the wall of the room in which he died." 

As the years went by (over a century and a half), it 
was chronicled that so few Pyncheons were left that the 
race seemed to be dying out, until at last there were left 
but Judge Pyncheon, who indeed, to the world, was one 
of the best of the whole name ; his son, who was traveling 
in Europe; a P3mcheon who was serving a long imprison- 



348 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

ment for having killed a relative of the same name; a 
sister of the prisoner, who had a life-estate in the House 
of the Seven Gables by the will of a deceased relative; 
and "the last and youngest Pyncheon was a little 
country-girl of seventeen," whose father had died young, 
and whose mother saw fit to take another husband. The 
lady who lived in the old home was wretchedly poor, but 
she had often refused from the Judge offers of assistance, 
and seemed to choose poverty for some reasons of her 
own. 

At the time when this aristocratic family had dwindled 
down to so few in number, it was thought that the Maule 
family was extinct. They had always, in their successive 
generations, been a quiet, honest, reserved people, and to 
all appearances they never seemed to think that the great 
house of the Pyncheons rested upon soil that properly 
belonged to the descendants of Matthew Maule. 

It must be noted here that one of the Pyncheons had 
so far forgotten himself that he had in his poverty con- 
cluded to support himself, and had made a shop in part 
of the basement story of the House of the Seven Gables, 
and had cut a door in one of its sides; but as soon as he 
was dead "the shop-door had been locked, bolted, and 
barred, and, down to the period of our story, had prob- 
ably never once been opened." 

At last Miss Hepzibah Pyncheon dwelt alone in the 
house, except that a quiet, well-behaved young man who 
took daguerreotypes, had for some time been a lodger in 
part of the house quite removed from her. Her life was 
lonely and sad. How could it be aught else when her 
brother, the brother whom she loved, was spending the 
years of his life within prison bars ? But there came a 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 349 

change into her life, — very late in life, indeed, for Miss 
Hepzibah had lived over sixty years, — when she decided 
to go into business on her own account. It had come to 
the point when it must be that or starve; so the old shop 
in the basement had been cleared of its cobwebs and 
made tidy, and one morning the bar was -taken from the 
door, and Miss Hepzibah was waiting to welcome her first 
customer. The trial that would crush all her pride had 
come to her. She, the last daughter of the Pyncheons, 
standing behind a counter, and with her own dainty 
hands, — the fair hands of a gentlewoman, — dealing out 
goods and wares in small quantities to whosoever would 
demand them! The young daguerreotypist called to 
leave his good wishes, and she told him how dreadfully 
she felt. 

"'Ah ; Mr. Holgrave/ cried she, as soon as she could 
speak, ' I never can go through with it ! Never, never, 
never I I wish I were dead, and in the old family-tomb, 
with all my forefathers ! . . . The world is too chill and 
hard, — and I am too old, and too feeble, and too hope- 
less!'" 

He encouraged her all he could, and told her that the 
new phase of her life would be easier than it looked 
before she had grappled with it, and that he looked upon 
her first day in her shop as an augury for good. 

"'It ends an epoch and begins one. Hitherto, the 
life-blood has been gradually chilling in your veins as 
you sat aloof, within your circle of gentility, while the 
rest of the world was fighting out its battle with one kind 
of necessity or another. Henceforth, you will at least 
have the sense of healthy and natural effort for a purpose, 
and of lending your strength — be it great or small — to 



350 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

the united struggle of mankind. This is success, — all the 
success that anybody meets with.' " 

Mr. Holgrave wished to be her first customer; but 
from the only friend she had in all the world she felt that 
she could not take a penny for a bit of bread. Her first 
real sale was nothing but a piece of gingerbread, but 
after the excitement attending it was over and the little 
urchin who had bought it was leaving her shop, a calm- 
ness came over her, and her anxious thoughts vanished 
into the past. Business was to be her aim, and she 
applied herself to it. " The healthiest glow that Hepzi- 
bah had known for years had come now in the dreaded 
crisis, when, for the first time, she had put forth her 
hand to help herself." The first day as a keeper of a 
shop brought its trials to her. There were customers 
who were hard to please; there were those who were 
very much displeased. She saw her relative, Judge 
Pyncheon, go by on the other side of the street, stop, 
look at the house with expressive glances, and then pass 
her by. She troubled herself with many fancies. An 
old, patriarchal-looking man, known as Uncle Venner by 
the whole neighborhood, dropped into her little room. 
Something he said to her set her to thinking: "Some- 
thing still better will turn up for you. I'm sure of 
it!" Visions of what might be, vagaries of the hour, 
swept by her mental vision; illusive images of relatives 
distant and unknown coming to her aid and making her 
comfortable in circumstances, lent a halo to the place, 
and she built beautiful air-castles in her poor surround- 
ings. Uncle Venner gave her some sound advice about 
business, about greeting customers pleasantly, and then 
he asked her: — 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 351 

"'When do you expect him home? . . . Ah? you 
don't love to talk about it. Well, well ! we '11 say no 
more, though there 's word of it all over town. I remem- 
ber him, Miss Hepzibah, before he could run alone!'" 

At the close of her first day in business, just as she had 
bolted the door, an omnibus stopped at the house, and a 
bright young girl presented herself at the door. " It was 
'a face to which almost any door would have opened 
of its own accord." The visitor, who received a kindly 
welcome (though, it must be confessed, the visit had not 
been requested, and Hepzibah decided that it should be 
of short duration), proved to be Phoebe, the young cousin 
already mentioned, who had come to make her ancient 
cousin a visit, and, with the characteristic New England 
spirit, to seek her own fortune. Her mother's second 
marriage made it imperative that she should do so. 
Next morning Phcebe was up and enjoying such beauties 
of the garden as might be seen from her chamber win- 
dow. After arranging her room, she purposed to descend 
to the garden. She was met by Hepzibah, who stated 
to her what was on her mind, but, strange to say, in 
a very short time the elder woman changed her mind 
about returning Phoebe to her mother, and actually 
said, — 

" ' You are welcome, my child, for the present, to such 
a home as your kinswoman can offer you.' " 

What a change came over the little shop, what a 
change came over the habitable part of the House of 
the Seven Gables, after Phcebe came to it! Trade in- 
creased, cheerfulness reigned. Hepzibah took Phoebe 
over the old house, and told her of its traditions and 
former inhabitants; and then she told her of Mr. Hoi- 



352 THE HOUSE OP THE SEVEN GABLES. 

grave, or at least as much as she knew of him, or rather 
surmised: that he had strange associates, and that she 
believed "he practised animal magnetism, and, if such 
things were in fashion nowadays, should be apt to sus- 
pect him of studying the Black Art, up there in his 
lonesome chamber"; and yet, she affirmed, he was kind 
and pleasant, and she did not like to send him away. 

Phoebe met the artist soon after this, in the garden, 
where he had beds of flowers and rows and hills of useful 
vegetables, and his character perplexed her, as it had 
many a more experienced observer. 

Clifford Pyncheon, Hepzibah's brother, had outlived 
the thirty years of his imprisonment, and was now 
free, and soon after the arrival of Phoebe had come 
home to his sister and to the old House of the 
Seven Gables, broken in spirit, clouded in mind. "At 
the first glance, Phoebe saw an elderly personage, in an 
old-fashioned dressing-gown of faded damask, and wear- 
. ing his gray or almost white hair of an unusual length. 
It quite overshadowed his forehead, except when he 
thrust it back, and stared vaguely about the room. ... 
The expression of his countenance — while, notwithstand- 
ing, it had the light of reason in it — seemed to waver, and 
glimmer, and nearly to die away, and feebly to recover 
itself again. It was like a flame which we see twinkling 
among half-extinguished embers; we gaze at it more 
intently than if it were a positive blaze, gushing vividly 
upward, — more intently, but with a certain impatience, 
as if it ought either to kindle itself into satisfactory 
splendor, or be at once extinguished." 

And after all these years this was the poor creature 
who had come back to Hepzibah — come back to be taken 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 353 

care of, to be ministered unto. The saddest part of it all 
was that he had an aversion to his sister; her presence 
was positively repulsive to him; but for Phoebe he con- 
ceived a strong liking, and her influence over him was 
like rays of sunshine in a dark room, — it lit up the 
darkness of a mind darkened by isolation and the degra- 
dation of a felon's cell. Clifford Pyncheon was a half- 
torpid man; whether or not he could ever be roused from 
his stupor was the problem. His coming back home did 
not lighten the cares of Hepzibah and Phoebe — it added 
to them. 

Clifford could not overcome his aversion to his sister, 
and an arrangement was made whereby Hepzibah would 
sit near by and watch him during his slumbering hours 
in the daytime, — and these were many, — whilst Phoebe 
would attend to the shop; and when he wakened, the 
two women would exchange places, Phoebe reading or 
singing or talking cheerfully to the poor, wretched old 
gentleman, who still retained the elegant tastes of his 
early life. "By the involuntary effect of a genial tem- 
perament, Phoebe soon grew to be absolutely essential to 
the daily comfort, if not the daily life, of her two forlorn 
companions. . . . Her spirit resembled, in its potency, a 
minute quantity of ottar of rose in one of Hepzibah's 
huge, iron-bound trunks, diffusing its fragrance through 
the various articles of linen and wrought-lace, . . . and 
whatever else was treasured there. As every article in 
the great trunk was the sweeter for the rose-scent, so 
did all the thoughts and emotions of Hepzibah and 
Clifford, somber as they might seem, acquire a subtle 
attribute of happiness from Phoebe's intermixture with 
them." 



354 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

Uncle Venner now became a frequent visitor at the 
house; so, too, did Mr. Holgrave, on Sunday afternoons, 
and sometimes on these occasions Clifford had momentary 
spells of cheerfulness, and even gayety. On other days 
Holgrave and the young girl frequently met in the garden, 
where she went to have companionship with the flowers 
and to breathe the pure air, — he, perhaps, to tend his veg- 
etables, which was one of his pastimes; or, which was 
more than probable, to cultivate the acquaintance of the 
bright, sensible young girl who was now lighting up the 
gloom — may we not say, the history — that attached to 
the decaying House of the Seven Gables. 

One day they met, and as they talked, Phoebe learned 
that Mr. Holgrave was a magazine writer. Further than 
that, he produced a roll of manuscript and read her one 
of his stories, about beautiful Alice Pyncheon, great- 
granddaughter of old Colonel Pyncheon, who had come 
under the mesmeric influence of a grandson of the old 
wizard and was led by him at his will, whether they 
were near together or far apart, to do as he wished 
her, until one night, while she was at a wedding-party, 
she was beckoned and influenced by the unseen finger of 
the mesmerist to leave the house and go to the common 
dwelling of a laboring man, whose daughter young 
Matthew Maule was that night to marry. She waited 
upon his bride, she kissed her, her spell was broken, and 
she went on her way. She was clad in her party clothes, 
her satin slippers were wet through and through, and 
Alice Pyncheon, the beautiful, proud Alice, took a cold 
from which she never recovered. " The Pyncheons made 
a great funeral for Alice. The kith and kin were there, 
and the whole respectability of the town besides. But, 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 355 

last in the procession, came Matthew Maule, gnashing his 
teeth, as if he would have bitten his own heart in twain, 
— the darkest and wofullest man that ever walked behind 
a corpse! He meant to humble Alice, not to kill her; 
but he had taken a woman's delicate soul into his rude 
gripe, to play with — and she was dead ! " 

As Holgrave read his story, something strange hap- 
pened to Phoebe. She began to be drowsy, and, " with 
the lids drooping over her eyes, — now lifted for an 
instant, and drawn down again as with leaden weights, — 
she leaned slightly towards him, and seemed almost to 
regulate her breath by his. Holgrave . . . recognized 
an incipient stage of that curious psychological condition, 
which, as he had himself told Phoebe, he possessed more 
than an ordinary faculty of producing." He felt his power, 
he felt that he could influence Phoebe as Matthew Maule 
influenced Alice Pyncheon, but he had enough integrity 
in his heart and too much reverence for her to seek her 
harm. He made a slight gesture upward with his hand 
and she was free from the spell. 

Phoebe spent several weeks at the House of the Seven 
Gables, and then went home to her mother, intending to 
return in a short time; and it was heavy and dreary 
enough to Clifford and Hepzibah while she was absent. 
The latter was startled one day, when, in answering the 
door-bell, she was confronted by Judge Pyncheon, who 
had effected an entrance into the shop, and who beamed 
benevolently upon her. He inquired of the health of 
herself and Clifford, and made offers of promoting their 
comfort if they would accept them. His offers were 
spurned. He grew pathetic, almost tearful, in his ear- 



356 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

nestness and solicitude. Hepzibah had cause to know 
that he was a dissembler — that under his assumed 
appearance of goodness there was a heart dyed in the 
blackness of hypocrisy and sin, and her indignation 
knew no bounds. Far back in his life there was a scene 
which had ended in her brother's disgrace, and in which 
she had suspicions, if not proof, that the man before her 
was responsible for her brother's imprisonment; and she 
cried : — 

" ' In the name of Heaven, in God's name, whom you 
insult, . . . give over, I beseech you, this loathsome 
pretence of affection for your victim! You hate him! 
Say so, like a man ! You cherish, at this moment, some 
black purpose against him in your heart! . . . Never 
speak again of your love for my poor brother! I cannot 
bear it!'" 

" Thus far the Judge's countenance had expressed mild 
forbearance. . . . But when those words were irrevocably 
spoken his look assumed sternness, the sense of power, 
and immitigable resolve; and this with so natural and 
imperceptible a change, that it seemed as if the iron man 
had stood there from the first, and the meek man not at 
all. . . . Never did a man show stronger proof of the 
lineage attributed to him than Judge Pyncheon, at this 
crisis," and Hepzibah almost felt that she had been talk- 
ing to old Colonel Pyncheon, so much did her cousin 
resemble in his severity the old picture hanging in the 
parlor. He declared his determination to see Clifford, 
and then relapsed into his look of studied benignity. He 
had come on a cruel errand, and declared that he would 
see it to the end. He told her of his Uncle JafFrey 
Pyncheon's will, in which all that he died possessed of 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 357 

was to go to him, Judge Pyncheon how, except the old 
mansion and some land adjoining, that were to be Hep- 
zibah's during her lifetime; but that not one-third of the 
great estate was apparent after his uncle's death, and that 
lie believed Clifford could give the clew to it, as some 
months before the old gentleman died, Clifford had boasted 
to him that he held the secret of untold wealth, and that 
he now sought him to compel him to disclose the docu- 
ments or other evidences of the missing property; and if he 
refused to do this, the only alternative was his confinement 
in an asylum for the insane for the remainder of his life. 

Hepzibah's grief was pitiful, but it did not touch the 
hard heart before her. Knowing well the character of 
him who stood in her room, and who turned a deaf ear to 
all her pleas for mercy for her brother, she moved towards 
Clifford's room. The Judge passed into the parlor and 
flung himself down in the great chair which family 
tradition said was the one in which the founder of his 
family had sat and given a dead man's reception to 
his guests when the House of the Seven Gables was 
for the first time opened to them. The picture of the 
old Colonel — the picture that by his will was never to 
be removed from its place — was immediately in front 
of him. No one can tell the feelings of the Judge as 
he sat and gazed upon it. He had taken out his watch 
"and now held it in his hand, measuring the interval 
which was to ensue before the appearance of Clifford." 

Poor Hepzibah! Thoughts of a conflicting nature 
passed through her mind as she went to her brother's 
room. She "could not rid herself of the sense of some- 
thing unprecedented at that instant passing and soon 
to be accomplished." She thought of Mr. Holgrave — of 



358 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

Phoebe; she wondered for a moment if Clifford had any 
knowledge of hidden wealth belonging to her uncle, but 
it was necessary that she weigh Judge Pyncheon's wishes 
and demands against her lingering thoughts, and she 
approached her brother's door and knocked. There was 
no response; again, but no answer; yet again, and again, 
and still silence within. She opened the door, but 
Clifford was nowhere to be seen. 

Where was he? "Could it be that, aware of the pres- 
ence of his Evil Destiny, he had crept silently down the 
staircase, while the Judge and Hepzibah stood talking in 
the shop, and had softly undone the fastenings of the 
outer door, and made his escape into the street?" Poor 
Hepzibah's brain conjured up all the troubles that would 
attend him should this prove the case, and she was 
almost distracted. She started towards the parlor, shriek- 
ing as she went: — 

" ' Clifford is gone ! I cannot find my brother ! Help, 
Jaffrey Pyncheon ! Some harm will happen to him ! ' " 

She threw open the door, but in the dimness of the 
room she could not see her cousin. 

"'I tell you, Jaffrey,'" she continued, "'my brother is 
not in his chamber ! You must help me seek him ! ' " 

No answer came to aught she might say. Clifford 
himself appeared on the threshold of the parlor, coming 
from within. He was deadly pale, and there was a wild 
look in his eyes which betokened scorn and mockery. 
He pointed his finger within the parlor and shook it, and 
there was a look upon his face which indicated joy. Had 
her brother shown signs of insanity and thus reduced 
Judge Pyncheon to absolute quiet ? she wondered. She 
was frightened at Clifford's appearance and words. 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 359 

"'As for us, Hepzibah, we can dance now! — we can 
sing, laugh, play, do what we will ! The weight is gone, 
Hepzibah! it is gone off this weary old world, and we 
may be as light-hearted as little Phcebe herself!'" 

He kept pointing his finger within at whatever object 
he may have seen, and his sister hurried past him, return- 
ing in a moment, gazing in terror upon Clifford, whose 
passion or alarm still seemed mingled with a feeling 
of mirth. He urged her to fly, and to bring her purse 
with all her money along with her, assuring her that 
Jaffrey would take care of the old house. Hepzibah was 
dazed, and she awakened not, even when, just before they 
left the house, she saw Clifford steal to the parlor door 
and make a parting obeisance to him who sat within. 

They started up Pyncheon Street, and were soon adrift 
in the world. They wandered on till they reached the 
railway station. Hepzibah was wholly at the disposal of 
her brother. He put her into a coach, and the train 
soon moved on, she knowing not whither they were going. 

" ' Clifford ! Clifford ! Is not this a dream ? ' " she asked. 

" ' A dream, Hepzibah ! On the contrary, I have never 
been awake before ! '" 

The conductor came by and asked for their tickets. 
As purse-bearer, self-installed, Clifford put a bank-note in 
his hand, and said they would ride as far as that would 
carry them, remarking that they were riding for pleasure 
only. An old gentleman who heard him was rather 
amused with the thought of seeking pleasure in a car- 
ride on such a day, and he and Clifford entered into an 
animated talk upon the merits of the comforts of one's 
own fireside and that of travel, till Hepzibah, knowing 
not to what lengths Clifford might go, begged him to be 



360 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

quiet. Clifford touched upon mesmerism and spirit- 
rapping; upon electricity and the telegraph. 

" ' You are a strange man, sir ! I can't see through 
you ! ' " said the old gentleman, at last. 

" ' No, I '11 be bound you can't ! And yet, my dear sir, 
I am as transparent as the water of Maule's well ! ' " 

Just then the train stopped at a lonely way-station, and 
Clifford decided that they would alight here. The excite- 
ment had worn away, and the poor fellow was submissive 
in Hepzibah's hands. She knelt down upon the platform 
and cried: — 

" ' God ! God, — our Father, — are we not thy chil- 
dren ? Have mercy on us ! ' " 

We leave these two forlorn ones for a moment, and 
turn to Judge Pyncheon. He still sits in the old chair 
in the old parlor, in front of old Colonel Pyncheon's 
picture, his watch in his hand, just as it was a moment 
after he had taken his seat, waiting for the appearance of 
Hepzibah and Clifford. All business engagements, all 
engagements for pleasure that he may have made for 
the day, are forgotten. He sits in unbroken silence, 
ghastly white and with features drawn, but no sound 
disturbs him. What strange spell has seized him? 
Uncle Venner was abroad early next morning, but on 
going to Miss Hepzibah's door, he was surprised to see 
no signs of her, and he was about passing out the gate 
of the back-yard, when Mr. Holgrave, from his window 
above, asked him if he heard anyone stirring, and spoke 
of the storm the night before. The newspaper man came 
and went; so did a customer. A gossip across the way 
imparted the information to a passer-by that she had 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 361 

seen Clifford and his sister go away the day before, and 
as Judge Pyncheon had been seen going into the house, it 
was surmised that his relatives had gone away to his 
home. Later, a little schoolboy who had a penny to 
spend in sweetmeats stopped, and, not gaining admit- 
tance to the shop, became angry and picked up a stone 
with naughty intent of throwing it through the window. 
Two men were passing by, and began to surmise what 
had become of the Pyncheons, stating that Judge Pyn- 
cheons horse had been standing at the liveryman's since 
the morning before, and that one of his hired men had 
come in from the Judge's country estate to make inquiry 
about him. Tradesmen came to deliver their orders — 
they went away without seeing Miss Hepzibah. The 
butcher, more persistent than the others, tried every 
door, and at last peeped through a crevice of the window 
curtain, and thought he saw a pair of stalwart legs 
belonging to a man sitting in the large oaken chair. 
He drove away in the spirit of contempt for anyone 
who would act as the mistress of the old house seemed 
to be doing just then. 

Rumors were afloat — rumors strange and dreadful, but 
no search was made for any of the Pyncheons that day, 
and in the afternoon Phcebe returned. She tried the 
shop-door for admittance, but it was barred, and ,?he 
could not get in. She went to another door and it was 
opened wide to admit her. She had no sooner entered 
than the door closed behind her, and Holgrave stood 
before her. He drew her, not into the parlor, but into 
what had once been a large reception-room, remarking 
that they met at a strange moment and that he could 
not rejoice that she had come back at that time. He 



362 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

told her of the flight of her cousins, and that something 
terrible had happened to some one, but that he believed 
both Hepzibah and Clifford to be innocent of any- 
hand in it. He showed her a daguerreotype of Judge 
Pyncheon, — the same as that she had seen the first time 
she met him, — and a second picture, taken within a 
half-hour, and then he told her that the original of 
the picture was in the parlor, dead, and that he himself 
had made the discovery. 

" ' A feeling which I cannot describe . . . impelled me 
to make my way into this part of the house, where I 
discovered what you see. As a point of evidence that 
may be useful to Clifford, and also as a memorial val- 
uable to myself, — for, Phoebe, there are hereditary reasons 
that connect me strangely with that man's fate, — I used 
the means at my disposal to preserve this pictorial record 
of Judge Pyncheon's death.' " 

He told her of what he feared for Hepzibah and 
Clifford, and that, thirty years before, old Jaffrey Pyncheon 
had died under very similar circumstances, though Clif- 
ford was charged with the crime and had suffered for it. 
Phoebe asked for the story in full, and Holgrave told her 
that he believed that the man who was at that moment 
sitting dead in the parlor had arranged everything 
against Clifford so that he might not share the inherit- 
ance, and had fixed guilt upon him of which he was 
innocent, and that the stroke of God had come upon 
himself as a punishment for his wickedness and to clear 
Clifford of the imputation of murder. 

" ' We must not hide this thing a moment longer!' said 
Phoebe. . . . Let us throw open the doors, and call all 
the neighborhood to see the truth! ' " 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 363 

Strange it is, but true as it is strange, Holgrave, before 
the public were notified that Judge Pyncheon was dead 
within the old house, declared his joy at Phoebe's return 
and his love for her. 

"' Do you love me? ... Do you love me, Phoebe?' 

" ' You look into my heart,' said she, letting her eyes 
drop. 'You know I love you!' " 

" ' Now let us meet the world ! ' said Holgrave. . . . 
* Let us open the door at once.' " 

"They heard footsteps in the farther passage," and 
going hither to open the door, there stood Hepzibah and 
Clifford; the former seemed broken down, and Clifford 
was the stronger of the two. 

"'Thank God, my brother, we are at home!'" said 
Hepzibah. 

Judge Pyncheon was dead — there was no question of 
the truth of the fact. When the highest professional 
authority declared that his was no unusual form of death, 
the public took but little interest in his decease. The 
circumstances connected with the death of the elder 
Jaffrey Pyncheon were revived, but no one now believed 
Clifford guilty of murder, though, as he was living with 
his uncle at the time of his death and certain valuable 
documents and articles had been removed from his 
private room and desk, the death had been fixed upon 
him. Suspicion was also fixed upon young Jaffrey, 
afterwards Judge Pyncheon, as he had been disinherited 
by his uncle on account of his dissolute habits and love 
of low pleasures. The story was, — or was supposed to 
be, — that being one night engaged in searching his 
uncle's desk, old Jaffrey appeared in the doorway, and 



364 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

in the surprise at the discovery of his nephew's criminal 
deed, he was so agitated that he "seemed to choke with 
blood, and fell upon the floor, striking his temple a 
heavy blow against the corner of a table." He never 
revived, and young Jaffrey, proceeding with his search, 
found a will in favor of Clifford, which he destroyed, and 
an older one in favor of himself was offered for probate. 
When Clifford was suspected and brought to trial, Jaffrey 
had arranged everything so well that he did not have to 
swear to anything false to fix the guilt upon him, — he 
simply refrained from telling the circumstances of his 
uncle's death as he knew them. 

Judge Pyncheon was laid to rest, and though he did 
not know it, he died childless. A few days after his 
strange death a steamer from Europe brought word of 
the death of his son by cholera, just as he was embarking 
for his native land. By his decease Clifford and Hep- 
zibah became rich. So, too, did Phoebe, and through his 
marriage with her Holgrave shared the Pyncheon riches. 
Clifford became stronger physically and mentally. He 
had lived in constant terror of Jaffrey Pyncheon, and 
when freed from his presence, he was a different man. 

Before the family removed from the House of the 
Seven Gables to their deceased relative's elegant country 
seat, henceforth to be their home, Clifford was standing 
before old Colonel Pyncheon's picture. 

" ' Whenever I look at it, there is an old dreamy recol- 
lection haunting me, but keeping just beyond the grasp 
of my mind. ... I could fancy that, when I was a 
child, or a youth, that portrait had spoken, and told me 
a rich secret, or had held forth its hand, with the written 
record of hidden opulence.' " 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 365 

" ' Perhaps I can recall it/ answered Holgrave. ' See ! 
There are a hundred chances to one that no person, 
unacquainted with the secret, would ever touch this 
spring.'" 

Holgrave touched the spring, and at his pressure the 
protrait, frame, and all tumbled forward and lay upon 
the floor. A recess in the wall was brought to light, and 
therein lay an ancient deed, signed by several Indian 
sagamores, and conveying to Colonel Pyncheon and his 
heirs forever a vast territory of land lying in the far East. 

" ' But,' said Phoebe, apart to Holgrave, ' how came you 
to know the secret ? ' 

"'My dearest Phoebe,' said Holgrave, 'how will it 
please you to assume the name of Maule ? As for the 
secret, it is the only inheritance that has come down to 
me from my ancestors. You should have known sooner 
(only that I was afraid of frightening you away) that, in 
this long drama of wrong and retribution, I represent the 
old wizard, and am probably as much a wizard as ever 
he was. The son of the executed Matthew Maule, while 
building this house, took the opportunity to construct that 
recess, and hide away the Indian deed, on which depended 
the immense land-claim of the Pyncheons,. Thus they bar- 
tered their Eastern territory for Maule's garden-ground.'" 

"A plain, but handsome, dark -green barouche had now 
drawn up in front of the ruinous portal of the old man- 
sion-house. The party came forth, and . . . proceeded 
to take their places. They were chatting and laughing 
very pleasantly together; and — as proves to be often the 
case, at moments when we ought to palpitate with sensi- 
bility — Clifford and Hepzibah bade a final farewell to 
the abode of their forefathers, with hardly more emotion 



366 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 

than if they had made it their arrangement to return 
thither at tea-time." 

" Maule's well, all this time, though left in solitude, was 
throwing up a succession of kaleidoscopic pictures, in 
which a gifted eye might have foreshadowed the coming 
fortunes of Hepzibah and Clifford, and the descendant 
of the legendary wizard, and the village maiden, over 
whom he had thrown Love's web of sorcery. The 
Pyncheon Elm, moreover, with what foliage the Septem- 
ber gale had spared to it, whispered unintelligible proph- 
ecies. And wise Uncle Venner, passing slowly from the 
ruinous porch, seemed to hear a strain of music, and 
fancied that sweet Alice Pyncheon — after witnessing 
these deeds, this bygone woe and this present happiness, 
of her kindred mortals — had given one farewell touch 
of a spirit's joy upon her harpsichord, as she floated 
heavenward from the House of the Seven Gables ! " 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 

1783-1859. 



To oxe familiar with the best and purest in American 
literature, there is no name dearer than that of him who 
wrote the inimitable "Sketch Book," "Braceb ridge Hall," 
and "Tales of a Traveler." How lifelike are his 
sketches, how genial, how easily understood! We have 
seen a dog very like the one which Irving describes, — we 
have heard its bark many a time; we have seen fowls 
that could not be distinguished from those that he 
looked upon, strutting with a proud independence very 
similar to that of the ones which gave him so much 
amusement; we have known characters that are faith- 
fully delineated in those that peopled Irving's world; we 
are not in a strange land and among strangers, but are 
at home and among our friends, when we read his 
sketches of American people and American life. 

Washington Irving was born in New York City, April 
3, 1783. He began the study of law, but, while a 
student, under the name of Jonathan Oldstyle he con- 
tributed several articles to the Morning Chronicle. He 
went into commercial pursuits with his brothers, Peter 
and William, and was sent to England on business. He 
remained there two years; he then returned to New 
York, and was admitted to the bar. He became a 
frequent contributor to Salmagundi, a semimonthly 
periodical, and in 1809 he and his brother Peter had 

r>7 



368 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



published "Diedrich Knickerbocker's History of New 
York"; but these had only occupied hours that could be 
taken from other pursuits. In 1809 occurred the death 
of Matilda Hoffman, his betrothed. Her death gave a 
tinge of sadness to his whole after life, and, true to the 




Washington Irving's Home. 

memory of the love he bore her, he never afterwards 
gave any thought to marriage. From 1813 to 1814 he 
edited the Analectic Magazine, a periodical published 
in Philadelphia. In 1815 he went for the second time to 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 369 

Europe, as the house of which he was a partner carried 
on business both in New York and Liverpool. In 1817 
the house became bankrupt. Washington Irving now 
took up literature as a profession. In 1819-20 "The 
Sketch Book" was collected and published in two vol- 
umes by John Murray, the London publisher. " Brace- 
bridge Hall" followed in 1822. It is said that Thomas 
Moore, the poet, suggested the compilation of this book. 
"Tales of a Traveler" appeared in 1824, and Murray 
gave its author the sum of fifteen hundred guineas for 
the manuscript, without having seen it. In 1826 Irving 
went to Spain, where he remained till 1829. It was 
while here that he wrote and published the "Life of 
Columbus/' and the "Chronicle of the Conquest of 
Grenada." He was appointed Secretary of the United 
States Legation in London in 1829, and it was while in 
London that he published "The Alhambra," and "The 
Voyage of the Companions of Columbus." 

While in Spain, Irving lived in the old Moorish palace 
for two or three months, being, as he himself says, "in a 
kind of Oriental dream" all the time. After an absence 
of seventeen years, in 1832 Irving returned to the United 
States, and received such an ovation as had never before 
been given to a returning traveler. 

In 1834 he traveled in the West with commissioners 
appointed to treat with the Indians, and in 1835 appeared 
his "Tour of the Prairies." It was in this year that he 
purchased a tract of land on the east bank of the Hud- 
son, on which was a small Dutch cottage, the Van Tassel 
house as it is described in his "Legend of Sleepy 
Hollow." It was afterward known as Wolfert's Roost, 
but Irving christened it Sunnyside, which name it still 



370 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

retains in honor of him. From 1842 to 1846 he was 
Minister to Spain. When his term of office had expired 
he returned to Sunnyside, where he spent the remainder 
of his life. 

Irving wrote upon many themes, and as volume suc- 
ceeded volume, each received a warm welcome. No Amer- 
ican author has ever been more popular than he. His 
histories possess the fascination of romances. His books 
and characters became household names in his own day, 
and are familiar friends of ours after half a century has 
passed. As a writer of sketches and stories, he occupies 
a prominent place which no one can dispute. As a 
historian he has been gravely criticized. His pages are 
too highly colored to make them accurate as history. 

Irving's geniality of disposition won him hosts of 
friends both in Europe and America, and all the promi- 
nent literary characters of his day, in both countries, 
were proud of his friendship and took delight in honor- 
ing him. No other American author has attained the 
popularity that has been accorded him. Thomas Camp- 
bell, the poet, gave him a letter of introduction to Walter 
Scott, and Scott said of Irving, "He is one of the best 
and pleasantest acquaintances I have made this many 
a day." He died November 28, 1859, at Sunnyside, 
regretted by thousands on both continents; ay, the two 
continents joined hands and hearts in a mutual grief 
and vied with each other in doing him honor and in laying 
upon his grave the tributes of their love. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



Principal Characters. 
Rip Van Winkle, the Vagabond of the Catskills. 
Dame Yan Winkle, Rip's Wife. 

Rip Van Winkle, Jr., Son and Counterpart of our hero. 
Lena, Rip's Daughter. 
Derrick Van Bummel, the Schoolmaster. 
Nicholas Vedder, Landlord of the inn. 
Children and loungers of the village. 
Dwarfs, the Spirits of the Mountains. 



372 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

By Washington Irving. 



No lover of nature who has ever made the voyage up 
the Hudson will forget the moment when the distant 
Kaatskill Mountains come into view. From the time the 
traveler has left the busy scenes of life in the metropolis 
behind him, each point on either side of the majestic, 
beautiful river is a point of interest, picturesque or his- 
toric ; and while the onlooker may on one side of him 
gaze in wonder on the Palisades, whose bare, precipitous 
walls of rock rise abruptly and extend for several miles 
up the river; while he looks upon Stony Point, and 
recalls "Mad Anthony Wayne's" exploit, wherein with 
but a small force of men he surprised and captured the 
British fort on the Point, or with eager eyes strives to 
catch glimpses of the life that is going on at West Point, 
— he may, if he knows well how to use his eyes, look on 
the other side of the river and see towering castles or 
homes made interesting or historic by the lives that have 
been lived or the scenes that have transpired within 
them, and imagination joined with fact may round out 
many a tale of thrilling interest otherwise obscure. The 
traveler comes to a point where the river seems to end. 
On the west rises Dunderberg Mountain, on the east 
Anthony's Nose ; down below, between the two, lies in 
peaceful beauty Iona Island. The boat rounds the 
island, and the beautiful Highlands of the Hudson 

373 



374 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

stretch for miles along the course of the river. But 
while he looks with untiring interest upon Palisades and 
broken ranges of hills, while he is making his way up- 
stream on the clear; wide expanse of the Hudson, whose 
waters are moving downward with majestic motion to 
join the grand old ocean, suddenly some companion on 
the boat, whose field-glass is pointed to the west, exclaims, 
" The Kaatskills ! the Kaatskills ! " and there is a momentary 
forgetfulness of everything else, as each passenger crowds 
to the bow of the boat or secures an advantageous seat 
on the west side, where he may see all that is to be seen 
of the high-towering peaks, which seem to have broken 
membership with the great ranges of the Appalachians, 
and stand, solitary and alone in their majestic height, 
looking down for miles upon the peaceful landscape on 
all sides, which landscape may indeed be said to have its 
origin at "their base. 

From the river, the mountains appear to be clothed in 
somber shades of gray, or azure, or green. Drawing 
nearer, the hues are more intense, and in clear weather 
royal purples and azure tints form their outer dress, 
which is distinctly outlined against the paler sky. Some- 
times, when the sun is setting, a great cap of gray vapors 
gathers on the mountains' crest; and as the sun moves 
slowly towards its home beyond the western horizon its 
lingering rays of light turn into red and gold, and, min- 
gling with the gray mountain mist, form a crown of glory 
which the pen of mortal cannot describe, or the touch of 
the artist reproduce. 

In years gone by (so says the record), near the base of 
the mountain nestled a little village, not like those which 
now dot that region of country, wherein artistic cottages 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 375 

and palatial residences predominate, but a primitive vil- 
lage, whose houses were mainly of inexpensive or rude 
construction, and whose inhabitants lived without ambi- 
tions or aspirations higher than those found in their little 
hamlet. The village had been founded by some of the 
early Dutch settlers in the seventeenth century, when 
Peter Stuyvesant, the best and ablest of their governors, 
was in power. The smoke from the cottage chimneys 
curled upwards, the bright colors from the painted roofs 
gleamed among the trees, the "small yellow bricks 
brought from Holland," of which the houses were built, 
shone in the sun upon a very contented and unambi- 
tious people. 

The houses could not always remain new, and time 
wrought many changes in them. The thrifty Hollander, 
by good care and constant repairing, kept his house in 
good shape ; that of his „ shiftless, careless neighbor 
gradually fell into decay or ruin. The Dutch colony 
yielded to the power of the Briton, and it was while the 
country surrounding the village "was yet a province of 
Great Britain," that Bip Van Winkle, with his family, 
occupied one of the village houses, a tenement sadly out 
of repair, whose exterior told the tale that for many years 
its latticed windows and gabled fronts and weather- 
stained walls had not come in touch with the renovating 
brush of the painter. 

Rip traced his ancestry to the "Van Winkles who 
figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuy- 
vesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Chris- 
tina." He was a simple, good-natured fellow, who in his 
character was utterly destitute of any of the warlike 
spirit shown by the earlier Van Winkles, and though 



376 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

possessed of many amiable and endearing characteristics, 
he had submitted without resistance for so many years to 
the dominant will of Mrs. Van Winkle, that all that was 
ever self-assertive in him had become absorbed in a 
quiescent, pliant frame of character that was well known 
throughout the neighborhood where he dwelt. No deed 
of kindness that he could do for a neighbor was ever left 
undone. He won many friends through these deeds. 
Perhaps, had he neglected his neighbors' interests and at- 
tended more strictly to his own, he and Mrs. Van Winkle 
might have lived on better terms, — perhaps the most re- 
markable episode in his life would never have occurred, 
and he might have died unknown to the general public. 

While there are grave suspicions that Dame Van 
Winkle saw no good qualities in her husband, it is 
recorded "that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, 
took his part in all family squabbles; and never failed, 
whenever they talked those matters over in their evening 
gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle." 
The children of the village always greeted his appearance 
with demonstrations of delight, because his heart was as 
young as theirs and he could be a youth in their sports 
and games ; and then his mind was a storehouse of legends 
and stories of ghosts and witches and Indians. "When- 
ever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded 
by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on 
his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunity; and not a dog would bark at him throughout 
the neighborhood." 

Notwithstanding all the good qualities that Rip pos- 
sessed, there was one wanting that made of his life a 



KIP VAN WINKLE. 3/ i 

failure,— he was constitutionally opposed to any exercise 
or application to labor whereby he might have been 
profited. Perhaps Dame Van Winkle was not to be 
blamed for her belligerent attitude towards Rip; perhaps 
(and it is altogether probable), had he assisted her instead 
of assisting the women of the village in the little yet 
innumerable chores of their households, she might have 
had fewer of the same kind of chores to do in Kip's 
household, and she might never have Avon for herself the 
universal sobriquet of "termagant." He possessed the 
gift of perseverance, for "he would sit on a wet rock, with 
a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all 
day without a murmur, even though he should not be 
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowl- 
ing-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, 
to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons." In a word, 
Rip was shiftless, he was aimless; and of all the 
qualities with which nature had endowed him, that 
which was most distinctive, which overbalanced all 
others, was laziness. His farm, which was just as fertile 
as any in the province, lay neglected, and became the 
home of weeds most pestilent and hard to be eradicated, 
and in a few years after Eip came into possession of it, it 
dwindled away "acre after acre, until there was little 
more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, 
yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the neighborhood." 
What could be expected of children with such a father 
and mother? Rip Van Winkle, Junior, resembled his 
father so much that one familiar with the latter would 
know the paternity of the former at first sight. There 
something singular about the boy, however. While 



378 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

other mothers' sons were always seeking Rip Van 
Winkle's company, his own son seldom followed him, but 
generally stayed as near to his mother as possible. It made 
no difference to Rip ; nothing affected him ; he sipped 
what sweets came in his way ; he never wanted anything 
higher or better or purer. " If left to himself, he would 
have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; but his 
wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idle- 
ness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on 
his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was 
incessantly going, and every thing he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had 
but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and 
that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He 
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, 
but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a 
fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw 
off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the 
only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked 
husband." 

Rip had one constant, ever-abiding friend, his dog 
Wolf, who shared his master's pleasures — such as they 
were — and his troubles, — so far as Rip would appropriate 
troubles, — and who, when in Dame Van Winkle's pres- 
ence, was as meek and noncombative as the head of the 
Van Winkle household himself. " Times grew worse and 
worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of matrimony rolled 
on. . . . For a long while he used to console himself, 
when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of per- 
petual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle 
personages of the village, which held its sessions on a 
bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund por- 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 379 

trait of his Majesty George the Third. Here they used 
to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer's day, 
talking listlessly over Tillage gossip, or telling endless, 
sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been 
worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound 
discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance 
an old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing 




Rip "was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house." 

traveler." Besides our noted friend Rip Van Winkle, 
the village schoolmaster, Derrick Van Bummel, and 
Nicholas Vedder, the landlord of the village inn, were 
wont to join this outside, sidewalk club, and lend their 
influence to it. Mrs. Van Winkle, knowing well each 
character in the club, and neither expecting nor seeing 
any good result from their frequent sittings, formed the 



380 KIP VAN WINKLE. 

habit — for habit it was, from its constantly recurring fre- 
quency — of breaking in unexpectedly upon their sage 
deliberations, and putting the members to most undigni- 
fied flight, not even excepting Nicholas Vedder, the pro- 
prietor of the inn, himself. 

Rip was in despair, and yet the only way by which he 
could mend matters — by becoming a staid, industrious, 
provident man — was studiously and carefully avoided by 
him. He would stroll off to the woods, and, with the 
soothing voices of nature lulling him to sleep, would 
spend many a day, with no companion near him but 
Wolf, "his fellow-sufferer in persecution." 

One autumn day, these two started up the mountain- 
side, and ere they were aware of whither they were going, 
they found themselves upon one of the highest peaks of 
the Kaatskills. The solitude had been unbroken save by 
the twitter of some bird or insect, or the echoes and re- 
echoes of Rip Van Winkle's gun. The effort of ascent 
had greatly fatigued Rip, and he threw himself down 
where " from an opening between the trees he could over- 
look all the lower country for many a mile of rich wood- 
land. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far 
below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with 
the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging 
bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at 
last losing itself in the blue highlands." Everything 
above and around him was at peace. 

The hours sped by unheeded, and evening drew near. 
A strange dread accompanied the approach of the 
evening twilight, the dread of meeting his wife. The 
repose of the sylvan spot must be broken ; Rip felt that 
he must descend from the heights of the mountain and 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 381 

of happiness to the turmoil and the troubles of the 
valley below. Suddenly, in the distance he heard some 
one call his name: "'Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!'" 
lie looked ; no one was near. Again did he hear the 
voice, and so too did Wolf, who bristled up his back, 
uttered a loud growl, and peered down the glen whence 
the sound seemed to proceed. Rip looked in the same 
direction and saw a strange figure climbing up the rocks, 
and bending under the load he carried on his back. 
Surmising that it might be some one in need of assist- 
ance, Rip hastened towards the intruder to offer it. The 
stranger was "a short, square-built old fellow, with thick 
bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the 
antique Dutch fashion : a cloth jerkin strapped round 
the waist — several pairs of breeches, the outer one of 
ample volume, decorated w T ith rows of buttons down the 
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder 
a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs 
for Rip to approach and assist him with the load." 

Ever willing to help others, Rip complied, and they 
began the ascent of the narrow- gully before them. 
Strange noises, like the rolling of distant thunder, were 
heard reverberating between the great walls of rock, and 
Rip stopped for a moment. Their path led them to "a 
hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by perpen- 
dicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending 
trees shot their branches." Not a w T ord w T as spoken by 
either man, though it must be told that Rip's curiosity 
hd him to wonder why anyone would carry a keg of 
liquor up the wild mountain, where there were no signs 
of habitation. When they entered the amphitheater he 
stood amazed at what he saw. His companion up the 



382 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



mountain was a strange-looking man; before them there 
was a company of equally strange-looking creatures play- 
ing at ninepins. Their dress was of no known fashion, 
and their faces were not such as Rip had ever seen 
before. There was one man who seemed to control the 
others. As Rip stood looking upon the group he was 
impressed with their gravity of appearance and demeanor 
and their unbroken silence, though their employment was 
merely amusement. Not a word was spoken. "Nothing 




Drinking to the Health of the Spirits of the Mountains. 



interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 
balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along 
the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder." They 
stopped their game when Rip and his silent companion 
drew near, and gazed upon them with an expressionless 
stare that terrified the former. His unknown friend mo- 
tioned him to take the flagons, into which he had emptied 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 383 

the liquor, and wait upon the players. This Rip did. They 
drank and then resumed the game. Rip's terror gradu- 
ally subsided, and when he thought no one saw him he, 
too, tasted of the liquor; it proving to be of the best 
quality, he was tempted to drink of it so frequently that 
he became unconscious and fell into a deep sleep. 

When he awoke he found it was morning, — a beautiful, 
sunny morning, in which all nature around him seemed 
to be taking delight. He listened to the music of the 
singing birds; he saw an eagle overhead; he felt the sweet 
breath of the morning breeze upon his face; he sat up and 
recalled the incidents of the day before, — as he supposed, 
— and the temptation to which he had yielded. Dame 
Van Winkle's angry countenance and stinging reproofs, to 
which he looked forward, were not a pleasant vision. He 
made ready to descend to the village. He reached for his 
gun, but instead of his well-kept fowling-piece he found 
an old, rusty gun by his side, whose stock was falling off in 
decay, and which would be useless to him. He looked 
around for Wolf, but, strange to say, he had deserted 
him. Thinking that he might not be far off, Rip 
whistled and called to him, but no bark answered him, 
no dog appeared. Oddly enough, too, Rip was not in the 
part of the mountain where he had seen the group of 
strange men, but in the spot where he had at first en- 
countered his companion. He decided to go to their play- 
ground before he went home; but, on attempting to walk, 
he found that he could scarcely move. He went down 
to the glen, but was amazed to see the gully filled with a 
clear mountain stream, whose bright waters formed many 
a cascade as they made their way over their rocky bed. 
By great effort he toiled through the undergrowth to the 




Rip Waking. " ' Surely,' thought Rip, ' I have not slept here all night. 1 " 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 385 

amphitheater in the rocks, but no such spot was visible. 
Water filled the basin, and as Rip looked upon it he 
was deeply perplexed. What had wrought the change 
in one short night? What was to be done? There was 
mystery all around him, there was no prospect of pleasure 
below; only one thing remained for him to do. He could 
not spend his days in the cold mountain, and he resolved 
to face Dame Van Winkle and her torrent of invective, 
which he felt sure was ready for him. 

As he drew near the village he met several persons, 
and he was surprised to find them all strangers. They 
were dressed differently, too, from any whom he had ever 
known. He stared at them, but they returned a stare 
which showed surprise and amusement as great as his 
own, and each one as he gazed would stroke his chin. 
The frequency of this movement upon the part of the 
men w r hom he passed, made Rip unconsciously put his 
hand to his chin. Lo! he found that his beard was of 
such an unusual length that he did not wonder at their 
strange gestures. He came into the village, and, instead 
of the friendly recognition from the children to which he 
had always been accustomed, hoots and insults were 
thrust upon him. Not a friendly face greeted him, not a 
friendly hand was extended. The very dogs seemed 
turned against him. The village had grown into a 
town. Everything was strange — strange names, strange 
faces, strange new streets. Could this change be effected 
in one short day and night ? thought poor, bewildered 
Rip. What power of witchery had wrought the trans- 
formation ? Was the world changed, or was he at fault ? 
Everything confused him, except the surety that the 
mountain in the distance was the Kaatskill, and that the 



386 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

river was the same Hudson that he had always known. 
Hill and dale were in the same places that they had ever 
been. What was the trouble ? What had wrought this 
confusion ? 

With a wisdom far beyond what might have been ex- 
pected, Rip solved the problem, and laid the blame upon 
the flagon of spirits of which he had imbibed so freely 
in the revels of the weird mountain people. He started 
in the direction of his home. It was sadly decayed and 
was uninhabited. In the anguish of his soul he cried 
aloud for the wife whom he feared, for the children who 
had so little reason to reverence or love him. Sad echoes 
responded to his call, and he left the desolate place and 
made his way to the inn where he and Derrick Van 
Bummel and Nicholas Vedder and other congenial 
spirits were wont to assemble. The inn was gone. An- 
other building stood upon its site — very dilapidated it 
was, we must confess — and "over the door was painted, 
'The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle.'" The old 
tree, whose wide-spreading branches had comforted Rip 
innumerable times, was nowhere to be seen. In its stead 
was a liberty-pole, from which fluttered a flag of stars and 
stripes ; the image of King George which but yesterday 
decorated the sign of the inn "was singularly metamor- 
phosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and 
buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a scepter, 
the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and under- 
neath was painted in large characters, l General Wash- 
ington.' " The crowd about the door were strangers, and 
instead of the repose and serenity of those with whom 
Rip had associated, their conversation was disputatious 
and belligerent. In place of the old innkeeper and the 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 387 

schoolmaster, "a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently 
about rights of citizens — elections — members of Congress 
— liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and 
other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to 
the bewildered Van Winkle." 

A motley crowd had followed Rip, and the tavern poli- 
ticians stopped their talk long enough to draw near to 
him and inquire on which side he voted. He was 
worse and worse confused when the question was put 
direct, whether he was Federal or Democrat. The 
crowd was parted to the right and left by a man of self- 
assumed authority, who demanded of Rip why he had 
come "'to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a 
mob at his heels.'" 

His answer was not conciliatory. 

'•'Alas! gentlemen,' cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, 'I 
am a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
subject of the king, God bless him ! ' 

"Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — 'A 
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with 
him!'" 

Rip assured them that he had come with peaceful 
intent; that he was in search of his friends; that he 
wished to see Nicholas Vedder. He was told that Nicho- 
las had been dead eighteen years, and that even the 
simple marker of his grave had gone to decay. He 
inquired for Brom Dutcher, another pleasant acquaint- 
ance, and for Von Bummel. The former had disappeared 
in some way unknown to his townsmen, and the humble 
pedagogue had first won a general's title and was at 
present representing his district in Congress 



388 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

Confused and almost crazed by the answers he received 
to every question, Eip cried out in the anguish of his 
lonely soul, " ' Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? ' " 
To this he received an answer not more satisfactory 
than the others had been. " ' Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! ' 
exclaimed two or three, 'oh, to be sure! that's Rip 
Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree.'" Sure 
enough ! There stood one, looking just as he did before 
that fatal day spent in the mountains. If that was Rip 
Van Winkle, who was he himself ? Others did not iden- 
tify him: evidently he was a stranger to himself. "'God 
knows ! ' exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; ' I 'm not myself 
— I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no that's 
somebody else got into my shoes — I was myself last 
night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've 
changed my gun, and every thing 's changed, and I can't 
tell what 's my name or who I am ! ' " 

This settled Rip's standing with the curious crowd. 
They exchanged significant looks, they pointed to their 
foreheads, they made motions that it would be prudent 
to relieve Rip of his gun. What might have been done 
with him one cannot tell; but just then a woman with a 
baby in her arms stepped forward to get a peep at him 
who was the object of interest to the great throng. The 
child, becoming frightened at the strange old man, began 
to cry. 

"'Hush, Rip/ cried she; 'hush, you little fool; the 
old man won't hurt you.' The name of the child, the air 
of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train 
of recollections in his confused mind." He turned to the 
woman with a gleam of hope, and inquired her name. 
She replied that it was Judith Gardenier. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 389 

"'And your father's name?' 

"'Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but 
it 's twenty years since he went away from home with his 
gun, and never has been heard of since, — his dog came 
home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was 
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was 
then but a little girl.'" 

A dark cloud had ever hung over Rip in the days gone 
by. He had ever dreaded the storm which its presence 
presaged. It must be confessed that there were no sunny 
recollections connected with it now, but he must ask 
another question ; he asked it tremblingly and fearfully, 
and with no loving curiosity: — 

"'Where 's your mother?'" 

There was no sound of regret, no sense of bereave- 
ment, in the plain, straightforward answer: — 

" ' Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since ; she broke 
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New England pedler.' " 

There was no dread before Rip. When he had wak- 
ened from his sleep and thought of facing his wife and 
her bitter upbraidings, the "coming events cast their 
shadows before"; now, even though some lingering affec- 
tion might have stirred a latent pang in Rip's bosom, 
there was comfort in knowing that never again would he 
have to listen to the accusations of his irascible partner. 
But he was coming in touch with his family once more, 
and through them he might again come in touch with 
the world which he loved so well, and of which he longed 
to again form a part. " He caught his daughter and her 
child in his arms. 'I am your father!' cried he — 'Young 
Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does 
nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?'" 



390 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

This wail touched the heart of an old woman, who 
stepped forward and recognized him. 

"'Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor. Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years?'" 

Rip had but little to tell. For twenty years he had 
been in a long, unbroken, dreamless sleep. Of course, 
most of his auditors doubted when they heard his story. 
They needed other assurance than his to corroborate the 
existence of such weird, silent creatures as those which 
Rip declared he had met in the mountain, and they con- 
sulted Peter Vanderdonk, the oldest inhabitant of the 
village, whose memory was a storehouse of " all the won- 
derful events and traditions of the neighborhood." 

Altered in appearance and manner though Rip was, 
Peter recognized him, "and corroborated his story in the 
most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that 
it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor, the histo- 
rian, that the Kaatskill Mountains had always been 
haunted by strange beings. That it was affirmed that 
the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of the 
river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty 
years, with his crew of the Half -moon; being permitted 
in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and 
keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city 
called by his name. That his father had once seen them 
in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow 
of the mountain; and that he himself had heard, one 
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder." 

We know not how many, if any, of the crowd believed 
this strange legend, for it was election day and other and 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 391 

more weighty matters claimed their attention. Rip Van 
Winkle's identity was established, which was much in 
his favor. Mrs. Gardenier took her father home to live 
with her. Her husband was a well-to-do farmer who, 
when a little boy, had known Rip well and cherished 
pleasant recollections of him. Young Rip Van Winkle, 
his father's counterpart and heir, was also "employed to 
work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary disposition 
to attend to any thing else but his business." 

Rip's habits were of too long standing to be uprooted 
or reconstructed. He hunted up his former associates, 
now, like himself, past the prime of life ; but they did not 
interest him as they had once done, and he betook him- 
self to the younger generation, the boys of the town, who 
soon learned to regard him with great favor. 

His son-in-law and daughter made life pleasant for 
him, and he frequently went to the village inn and sat 
upon the bench before it, and in due time he began to 
be looked upon as one of the patriarchs of the commu- 
nity. Though he could relate many incidents of interest 
of the times previous to his mysterious disappearance, "it 
was some time before he could get into the regular track 
of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange 
events that had taken place during his torpor : how that 
there had been a revolutionary war, — that the country 
had thrown off the yoke of old England, — and that, 
instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in 
fact, was no politician; the change of states and empires 
made but little impression on him; but there was one 
species of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
and that was — petticoat government. Happily that was 



392 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

at an end; he had gotten his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, 
without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. 
Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook 
his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; 
which might pass either for an expression of resignation 
to his fate, or joy at his deliverance." 

Rip never wearied of telling his story ; he did not 
always tell it the same way, but in due time the facts in 
the case arranged themselves, and were so often repeated 
that there was " not a man, woman, or child in the neigh- 
borhood but knew it by heart." There were those who 
were incredulous, to whom the story would never be a 
reality ; but the old Dutch inhabitants, who had the 
superstitions brought from beyond the seas, listened to it 
and believed every word that Rip told. "Even to this 
day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer after- 
noon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson 
and his crew are at their game of ninepins ; and it is a 
common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neigh- 
borhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that 
they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van 
Winkle's flagon." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



Principal Characters. 

Ichabod Crane, the Schoolmaster. 

Katrina Van Tassel, Daughter of Baltus Van Tassel. 

Abraham. Van Brunt, or Brom Bones, Rival of Ichabod Crane. 

Baltus Van Tassel, a wealthy Dutch farmer. 

Hans Van Ripper. 



394 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

By Washington Irving. 



"In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always pru- 
dently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. 
Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market- 
town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, 
but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are 
told, in the former days, by the good housewives of the 
adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their 
husbands to linger about the village tavern on market- 
days. . . . Not far from this village, perhaps about two 
miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among 
high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole 
world. A small brook glides through it, with just mur- 
mur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional 
whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost 
the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform 
tranquillity." 

"If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might 
steal from the world and its distractions, and dream 
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know 
of none more promising than this little valley. 

"From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 

395 



396 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long 
been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its 
rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
all the neighboring country." The whole neighborhood 
abounds with superstitions. Everyone who resides in 
this valley for a time is sure "to inhale the witching in- 
fluence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to 
dream dreams, and see apparitions." 

"The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of 
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
horseback without a head. . . . The specter is known, 
at all the country firesides, by the name of The Headless 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow." 

Here, in a remote period of American history, stood a 
primitive schoolhouse in a lonely spot near to the brook, 
on whose bank grew a large specimen of the birch-tree. 
This building was of the simplest construction and 
meager furnishing. On rough benches and at desks very 
limited in number the students sat, the only light which 
aided in their study being that which came through 
paper glazed and often patched with different materials. 
On a summer's day, when the door stood open and the 
paper was removed from the window-openings, might 
have been heard the subdued murmur of the children's 
voices, as, in the fashion of the time, they studied aloud 
in a low monotone; or, above the murmur of study, one 
could distinguish the voice of the master, Ichabod Crane, 
who gave instruction and administered discipline in about 
equal proportions. Sometimes, when it was necessary, he 
varied the exercises, and then might be heard "the ap- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 397 

palling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy 
loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. . . . Icha- 
bod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled," and yet 
"he administered justice with discrimination rather than 
severity, taking the burden off the backs of the weak, 
and laying it on those of the strong." 

Ichabod's income from teaching was small, and he eked 
it out, according to the custom of the times, in boarding 
round for a week at a time in the different families of the 
neighborhood. He was not always a welcome guest, but 
he made himself useful both indoors and out, and so 
could be tolerated with some measure of endurance. He 
assisted the farmers in the lighter field work, and did the 
heavy chores of the household. From constant associa- 
tion with older children he learned to take care of the 
younger ones in the household, and "he would sit with a 
child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for 
whole hours together."" He had another resource which 
brought him in an addition to his slender salary and made 
him one of the most prominent characters in the valley. 
He was the singing-master and choir leader, and on Sun- 
days he divided the honors of the sanctuary with the min- 
ister, — indeed, there were times when Ichabod was vain 
enough to believe that he eclipsed that godly man by the 
way in which he rendered the musical part of the worship. 

Ichabod was not handsome, — he was very far from 
being even passably good looking; but somehow, in 
some way, he had ingratiated himself with all the young 
maidens in the country, and received marks of attention 
from them, while the more bashful young men of the 
neighborhood kept in the background, meanwhile "envy- 
ing his superior elegance and address." 



398 THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

He was an authority on almost every subject. "He 
had read several books quite through, and was a perfect 
master of Cotton Mather's 'History of New England 
Witchcraft/ in which, by the way, he most firmly and 
potently believed." Whilst Ichabod was shrewd, he was 
also very credulous; and often on his walks to his board- 
ing-place in the dusk of evening, wherever that boarding- 
place might chance to be, was he frightened almost out 
of his senses by the most trivial, commonplace circum- 
stance or occurrence. He believed in evil spirits, and 
when alone, either on the quiet road or in the woods or 
glens, he would, to keep them at a distance, roll out 
sonorously psalm after psalm, whose melody would be 
borne to "the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat 
by their doors of an evening." Ichabod averred that 
"he had seen many specters in his time, and been more 
than once beset by Satan in divers shapes," — that is, he 
had had these unnatural visions when darkness enveloped 
the earth and he was traversing the country by himself; 
but in the light of day, or when he was indoors, he was 
free from persecution, and would have passed his time in 
pleasantness "if his path had not been crossed by a 
being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than 
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put 
together, and that was — a woman." 

Katrina Van Tassel, the only child of a wealthy Dutch 
farmer, was one of Ichabod's singing pupils. One even- 
ing of each week his class met, and it was then that for 
the first time he looked upon and felt the force of the 
fair girl's attractions. She was young and pretty, — aye, 
her beauty was of such a type that the surrounding 
country paid tribute to it by bringing to her many 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 399 

ardent admirers. Her personal beauty was enhanced 
by the prospect of vast wealth which her father had 
inherited and added to in many years of successful 
farming. Katrina was coquettish, as might have been 
expected from one born and reared as she had been. 
She knew how to dress so as to best show off her 
beauty, and her charms were never sacrificed to any 
whim of fashion. In her wardrobe the old styles that 
were becoming were mixed with the new, and for her 
ornaments she wore the antique jewelry that had de- 
scended to her from grandmothers far removed. Her 
dress was picturesque; there was no one who did — there 
was no one in all Sleepy Hollow who could afford to — 
dress as did Katrina Van Tassel. 

Baltus Van Tassel, Katrina's father, measured the 
world by the boundary lines of his farm. He cared not 
what went on beyond his own domain. From across 
the waters he had brought a strong home-love with him; 
he had also brought habits of industry, integrity, and 
contentment with his lot. He had chosen his farm in a 
beautiful valley which lay between the hills which border 
the Hudson, and at a point which commanded a fine 
view of the river he had built his house. He cared 
nothing for the grand style then so much affected by the 
wealthy colonists, but he lived in great comfort and with 
a free use of the good things which surrounded him on 
all sides. No unhappy dreams of ambition disturbed 
his thoughts by day or his sleep by night. He would 
sit under the great elm-tree that spread its branches over 
his ample home, and smoke his pipe in blissful peace, on 
good terms with himself and all the rest of the world. 
He was liberal-hearted and hospitable, and his door 



400 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



stood always open to any who with neighborly intent 
would enter it. His undertakings were prospered. 
"Whether he understood farming better than many others 
and sowed good seed in soil suitable for its reproduction, 
or whether the location of his fields in the valley, wherein 
they could receive the moisture from the river which 
descended in the early and the latter rain, was the cause 
of his abundant crops, we can only surmise; but certain 
it is that his barns were filled to their utmost with 
precious grain, that brought him precious coin whenever 
he wished to make the exchange from one to the other. 
His cattle and swine and horses were of the best, his 
turkeys strutted with a lordly air, while fowls of varied 
kinds grew fat and multiplied their species in great 
numbers in the cleanly kept poultry yard. Plenty 
reigned without Van Tassel's home, and most abundant 
plenty filled the closets and storehouses of the household 
within. No wonder that the future heiress of this wealth 
was an object upon which all the young men in the 
neighborhood looked with longing eyes. 

Ichabod Crane was very susceptible to the charms of 
the gentler sex. Katrina's beauty had impressed its 
counterpart upon his soft heart, and after he had visited 
her in her home there were other weighty considerations 
which made her an object of attainment greatly to be 
desired. He was without a home; if he could win the 
heiress, here was one ready prepared to receive him. He 
was tall, and lean, and lank, and had wondrous storage 
capacities for the pleasures of the table, and after he had 
eaten one meal at Baltus Van Tassel's table his soul 
within him would have been ever satisfied to sit at each 
meal during the remainder of his life with Katrina, and 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 401 

as her husband share the good things which her father 
knew so well how to provide. Under the sleepy, en- 
chanting influence of the valley, or some other influence 
equally potent, Ichabod would sit under the great elm 
with Van Tassel and allow his fancy to paint beautiful 
pictures of a future time when, if he could but win the 
handsome maiden, all these fertile fields and meadow- 
lands might be converted into cash, and with Katrina 
and a large family of children mounted in wagons filled 
with household goods, he himself riding by their side to 
ward off danger, they would start off to some El Dorado 
in the West, where vast domains were waiting for him 
who would enter in and possess them. 

He set himself resolutely to win Katrina's heart. As 
might be imagined, his pathway was beset with many 
difficulties. We have intimated that Katrina was coquet- 
tish; she was more; — young as she was, she had had 
so many admirers that she was very capricious. Ichabod 
found that he had rivals persistent and strong, and 
that to win the race he must summon all his best 
forces and appear to the best advantage. The rival 
whom he most dreaded, whom for many reasons he had 
most cause to dread, was Abraham Van Brunt, shortened, 
as was the custom of the Dutch, to Brom Van Brunt, a 
great, broad-shouldered athlete, whose feats of strength 
were well known the country over. "From his Hercu- 
lean frame and great powers of limb, he had received the 
nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was universally 
known." He was an expert horseman, and engaged in 
any game or sport that required physical strength. " He 
was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had 
more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and, with 

26 



402 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash 
of waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or 
four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, 
and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attend- 
ing every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. 
. . . The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture 
of awe, admiration, and good- will; and when any mad- 
cap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, 
always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was 
at the bottom of it." 

Brom Bones looked upon and weighed well the many- 
sided attractions of Katrina Van Tassel, and indeed, it 
was told by those who ought to know, that his attentions 
were received with favor by the pretty maiden. Of one 
thing the swains in the neighborhood were well aware: 
whenever Brom sought Katrina's company the other 
contestants for her favor retired in order and left the 
field clear for him. 

Van Tassel attended strictly to his farm and its prod- 
ucts, animal and vegetable. "His notable little wife, 
too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping 
and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely observed, 
ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked 
after, but girls can take care of themselves." So, with 
the confidence of both her parents that she would act 
wisely, Katrina managed her love affairs according to 
her own sweet will; she received or discouraged her 
suitors as she saw fit; no one advised her, no one 
restrained her. 

Ichabod Crane made his advances in one way, Brom 
Bones in a manner altogether different. Ichabod's 
dreamy nature made him feel secure of success; he was 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 403 

mild and gentle, his music lessons, if such they may 
be called, were an ever-at-hand excuse for his frequent 
visits to the Van Tassel homestead, and he would sit 
undisturbed by the hour with Katrina, under the elm- 
tree or in the comfortable Dutch parlor, or they w^ould 
take walks "in the twilight — that hour so favorable to 
the lover's eloquence." Ichabod's interests with Katrina 
seemed to be growing in the estimation of his friends, 
and those of Brom Bones were apparently on the decline. 
"His horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on 
Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose 
between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow." 

Ichabod was pacific; if the whole truth were put in 
plain language, he stood in awe of the immense strength 
of Brom, and avoided everything that might arouse 
the belligerent in him. This was more exasperating 
to the great, rough wag than threats and open hostility; 
and in consequence, Ichabod was the object of many a 
joke, which did him no harm, but which seemed to 
afford Brom and his companions much merriment. 
As Ichabod peacefully pursued his suit, his persecutors 
tried ways that more and more annoyed him. "They 
harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his 
singing-school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into 
the schoolhouse at night, in spite of its formidable 
fastenings of withe and window-stakes, and turned every- 
thing topsyturvy, so that the poor schoolmaster began 
to think all the witches in the country held their meet- 
in-- there. But what was still more annoying, Brom 
took opportunities of turning him into ridicule in pres- 
ence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom 
he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and 



404 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 
psalmody." 

Ichabod endured these persecutions with the spirit of 
non-resistance, but they were wearing upon him. One 
autumn day he sat in his school, amid the trials and 
annoyances that came in with the girls and boys, and 
was attending to the duties of his position, when he 
" was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro 
... with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- 
making or 'quilting frolic,' to be held that evening at 
Mynheer Van Tassel's." Almost before Ichabod had time 
to accept, the boy dashed away from the schoolhouse 
door, "and was seen scampering away up the Hollow, 
full of the importance and hurry of his mission." 

The excitement of the occasion changed the careworn, 
pensive attitude of Ichabod, and his pupils caught the 
inspiration of the hour. The enforced quiet was broken 
up, and haste ruled the exercises. "The scholars were 
hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles; 
those who were nimble skipped over half with impunity, 
and those who were tardy had a smart application now 
and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help 
them over a tall word. Books were flung aside without 
being put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, 
benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned 
loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like a 
legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the 
green, in joy at their early emancipation. 

"The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 405 

the schoolhouse." That week Ichabod was staying with 
Hans Van Ripper; and, that he might go in a style in 
line with other young men who would be at the party, he 
borrowed of Van Ripper a steed to carry him thither, and 
set out for Van Tassel's. The steed he rode demands a 
passing notice — it had much to do with Ichabod's future 
destiny. This horse bore the significant name of " Gun- 
powder," which told the nature of his character. He 
was "a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived 
almost everything but his viciousness. He w r as gaunt 
and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a ham- 
mer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted 
with burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring 
and spectral; but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. . . . Old and broken-down as he looked, there 
was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young 
filly in the country. 

"Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck 
out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicu- 
larly in his hand, like a scepter, and, as his horse jogged 
on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of 
a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of 
his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
called; and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out 
almost to the horse's tail." 

Ichabod was happy in himself, happy in anticipation 
of the pleasure of Katrina's company, happy in his pros- 
pective enjoyment without stint of the viands which he 
knew would be spread for the guests at Baltns Van Tas- 
sel's hospitable board. The beauties of an autumnal day 



406 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

were all around him. The sky was clear, and without a 
threatening cloud; the forests were clothed in the rich, 
warm colors of yellow and brown and scarlet and crim- 
son. Birds of beautiful and varied plumage enlivened 
the scene. The rich, juicy nuts with which the nut trees 
were laden, spoke a prophecy of winter evenings of pleas- 
ure and cheer around many a fireside in the quiet valley. 
If more were needed to enhance the pleasure of the 
coming winter time, Ichabod looked upon orchards whose 
boughs were loaded with rich, fragrant apples, or beheld 
vast stores of the luscious fruit standing ready for the 
market, and in imagination he almost tasted the ruby 
cider which he knew would soon be flowing from the 
presses of the neighborhood. Nature was prodigal with 
her treasures, and not only forests and orchards gave 
promise of what was to be, but the fields bore substantial 
tokens of their rich increase and abundant ingathering. 
"The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and 
glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation 
waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant 
mountain. ... A sloop was loitering in the distance, 
dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging 
uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of the 
sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the 
vessel was suspended in the air." 

When Ichabod reached Van Tassel's, he found farmers 
and farmers' wives, with their sons and daughters, each 
one dressed in the quaint Dutch costume, the chief orna- 
ment of the men being great numbers of brass buttons of 
an antique pattern arranged in rows upon their coats, and 
long plaited queues hanging down their backs, as was the 
fashion of their time. Brom Bones was there, in all his 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 407 

independence and high spirits. He had ridden his horse, 
which he had named Daredevil, "a creature, like himself, 
full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but him- 
self could manage." 

The young Dutch beauties of the valley and surround- 
ing country were gathered in the pleasant rooms and 
stately parlor of the Van Tassel mansion. The charms 
of these young maidens were most attractive to some of 
the swains, but to Ichabod, the "genuine Dutch country 
tea-table," with its "heaped-up platters of cakes of various 
and almost indescribable kinds," with "apple-pies and 
peach-pies and pumpkin-pies; besides slices of ham and 
smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved 
plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to men- 
tion broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with 
bowls of milk and cream, . . . with the motherly teapot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst," — to Icha- 
bod this tempting array of substantial and delicacies 
was indescribably charming. " He was a kind and thank- 
ful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin 
was filled with good cheer; and whose spirits rose with 
eating as some men's do with drink. He could not help, 
too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and 
chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be 
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and 
splendor." 

The host, Baltus Van Tassel, moved about and 
welcomed the guests in his earnest, simple-hearted 
manner, which consisted of "a shake of the hand, a 
slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invi- 
tation to 'fall to, and help themselves/" An old, gray- 
headed negro drew his bow upon the strings of an old, 



408 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

worn violin, and Ichabod, for whom the dance had 
witchery at all times, moved over the floor, his whole 
person animated and joyous because "the lady of his 
heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously 
in reply to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, 
sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by 
himself in one corner." 

When the dance was over, Ichabod drew near a group 
of elderly men who were rich in reminiscences of the war 
between the British and Americans, and he listened to 
the stories of bravery and daring exploit which they 
told of heroes dead and gone; and then came stories 
of ghosts and apparitions that had been seen in countless 
numbers in the neighborhood. 

The prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts 
" was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. 
There was a contagion in the very air that blew from 
that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere 
of dreams and fancies infecting all the land." Story 
after story was told, but the chief part of them "turned 
upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the headless 
horseman, who had been heard several times of late, 
patrolling the country; and, it was said, tethered his 
horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard." 
Brom Bones joined the group, and told that one night 
the headless horseman had overtaken him, and "that 
he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, 
and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the 
goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the 
church-bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a 
flash of fire." 

Not one of the stories told was lost on Ichabod Crane. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 409 

In return he gave copious extracts from Cotton Mather, 
and told of wondrous apparitions that he had seen after 
nightfall in Sleepy Hollow. 

All social gatherings must end in separations, and 
Dame Van Tassel's guests, some of whom had to traverse 
several miles before they reached their homes, withdrew 
when the festivities were over, loath to quit the house 
where they had been so handsomely entertained. All 
were at last gone save Ichabod Crane. He lingered be- 
hind, hoping to have a tete-a-tete with Katrina. She 
granted it, but whatever passed between them must have 
been of a very unpleasant nature, for Ichabod, after but a 
few moments, left the house, with a very disconsolate air. 
" Oh, these women ! these women ! Could that girl have 
been playing off any of her coquettish tricks? Was 
her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere 
sham to secure her conquest of his rival? Heaven only 
knows ! " 

What Ichabod said to Katrina no one knows; what 
she said to him is all conjecture; but his gay dreams of 
future enjoyment of the Van Tassel wealth must have 
been rudely shattered. He went to the stable, mounted 
Gunpowder, and started homewards, looking neither to 
the right hand nor to the left. 

Heavy-hearted, he rode "along the sides of the lofty 
hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had 
traversed so cheerily in the afternoon." The quiet and 
darkness of the midnight were all around him; within 
him were shattered hopes and a gloom of soul that well 
accorded with the night hour. He had to pass the spot 
where many of the scenes of the ghost stories told 
during the evening had been laid. "In the center of 



410 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered 
like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, 
and formed a kind of landmark. ... It was connected 
with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andr6, who 
had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally 
known by the name of Major Andre's tree." To dispel 
his gloom and fear, perhaps to drive away any spirit 
who might have been in his way, Ichabod began to 
whistle bravely. 

Hist ! What was that ? Was it only the echo of his 
own voice? Surely some one whistled, he thought. No; 
it was only the autumn wind sighing through the leafless 
tree-tops. Horrors! what was that white object in the 
tree ? Ichabod could reach his home in no other way 
than by going straight by the tree. There was no time 
to pause. The sooner he braved its terrors, whether 
real or imaginary, the better for him. He drew near and 
looked at the tree. The white object proved to be noth- 
ing more than a spot where the lightning's track had. 
stripped the bark and left the white surface exposed. But 
quiet of soul was not to be his. He heard a groan. Were 
the stories to which he had listened at Herr Van Tassel's 
true ? Was a fellow-traveler in trouble ? Was the spirit 
of Andre haunting the spot near where he had been so 
cruelly captured? No; the night wind was only playing 
hide-and-seek among the boughs of the tree, and the 
noise was made as one bough touched another in their 
sport. 

Troubles come "trooping in each other's track," and 
Ichabod's increased the farther he went on his way. 
His fears would scarce be allayed; his nerves, which 
were strung to their greatest tension, would be but 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 411 

half quieted, when sonic new terror would present itself 
just ahead of him. 

'•About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly 
wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A 
few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge 
over this stream. On thai side of the road where the 
brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, 
matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous 
gloom over it." It was at this bridge that Andre bad 
been captured; it was under these very trees that Pauld- 
ing, Van Wart, and Williams, his captors, lay concealed. 
Stout was the beart of him who could ride fearlessly 
through this memorable spot at midnight and not have 
his serenity of mind disturbed. Ichabod was not stout- 
hearted in the presence el* danger. His courage tailed 
him completely now. But there could be no retreat — - 

he must advance and take (be consequences. 

Summoning up all bis courage, be prepared to cross 
the bridge in baste and leave all dread recollections in 
the rear. Gunpowder, the perverse beast, was not bis 
ally; be failed him completely. Whether the sell-willed 
creature was insulted by the vigorous kicks which bis 
rider gave him, or for some propensity inherent in him, 
we know not, but certain ii is be did not take the straight 
line which would have been the shortest way to bis 
master's, but sought the roadside to bis right and left, 
much to Ichabod's discomfiture. What did lie see? 
Evidently something that bis rider's eyes, quickened to 
uncommon keenness though they were, could not discern. 
Just at the bridge be stopped. No force or persuasion 
from Ichabod could make him proceed. What was that? 



412 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

No wonder that Gunpowder stopped; no wonder that the 
poor frightened pedagogue felt his blood freeze within 
hiim Just by the brook, in the shadows of the great 
trees, stood "something huge, misshapen, black, and 
towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the 
gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon 
the traveler." If it were Andre's spirit, if it were the 
spirit of some nameless dead, flight would not avail. In 
desperation Ichabod cried out, demanding who it was, 
lurking in the shadows. No answer came. There was 
but one thing left him to do: he shut his eyes, brought 
his great feet in dextrous play against poor Gunpowder's 
sides, and with his peculiar intonation, struck up a 
psalm. This mode of defense had served him hitherto 
when in danger, — why not now? Mercy defend him! 
The psalm had lost its efficacy; he with whom the singer 
had now to contend was a foe different in character from 
any whom Ichabod had ever before encountered. What- 
ever or whoever it was, it . sprang into the middle of the 
road just ahead of him. It looked like. "a horseman 
of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of 
powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or 
sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, 
jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who 
had now got over his fright and waywardness." 

Ichabod was terrified beyond the power of speech; 
not a psalm, even, came to his relief. They left the 
shadows of the low ground, and, "on mounting a rising 
ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveler 
in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled 
in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that 
he was headless! — but his horror was still more increased, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



413 



on observing that the head, which should have rested on 
his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of 
the saddle." By vigorous kicking, Gunpowder was put in 
rapid motion, the black horse kept at his side. "Away 
then they dashed, through thick and thin; stones flying, 
and sparks flashing at every bound." 

They reached the road leading to Sleepy Hollow; 
Gunpowder did not follow it-, but took the one leading 




"Just then he savj the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of 
liurling his head at him." 

towards the church. Ichabod rode with the fury of 
desperation, but just when he had gained an apparent 
advantage in the chase, his saddle-girths gave way and he 
felt the saddle slipping from under him. No effort of his 
could keep it in its place; it fell, and Ichabod was "jolted 
on the high ridge of his horse's backbone, with a violence 
that he verily feared would cleave him asunder." He 



414 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

knew that the church-bridge was not far off; he reached 
it, he crossed it, and thought that he could now breathe 
the air of safety; he looked behind him, and "just then 
he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very 
act of hurling his head at him." The aim was a sure 
one; it struck Ichabod's head, he was unhorsed, and 
" Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed 
by like a whirlwind." 

Morning found Gunpowder standing riderless and 
without a saddle at Hans Van Eipper's gate. Ichabod 
did not appear in time for breakfast; his seat at dinner 
time was vacant. Something dreadful must have hap- 
pened him to have kept him from his meals. Search 
was instituted. The saddle was found, — Hans Van Kip- 
per's Sunday saddle, — buried in the dust and its glory 
departed. Gunpowder's tracks were traced to the bridge, 
and "on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where 
the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the 
unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin." 

Though diligent search was made, though there were 
many surmises and a few regrets at Ichabod's disappear- 
ance from the neighborhood, nothing was seen of him, 
nothing definite was ever known of him. His worldly 
effects were few in number and of little value. "They 
consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the 
neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair 
of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of 
psalm-tunes, full of dogs' ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. 
As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they 
belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's 
'History of Witchcraft,' a 'New England Almanac,' and 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 415 

a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last 
was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in 
several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in 
honor of the heiress of Van Tassel." 

As Ichabod "was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, 
nobody troubled his head any more about him. The 
school was removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, 
and another pedagogue reigned in his stead." 

It was firmly believed by some that he had been 
carried off by the headless horseman; and if there were 
those who entertained other and more sensible views 
of the ease, their record has never reached us. 

It is true that several years after the occurrence a 
farmer "brought home the intelligence that Ichabod 
Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, 
partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, 
and partly in mortification at having been suddenly 
dismissed by the heiress; that he had changed his 
quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept 
school and studied law at the same time, had been ad- 
mitted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written 
tor the newspapers, and finally had been made a justice 
of the Ten Pound Court." This story may have been 
true. New ambitions may have come to him, — flay 
may have been stirred into action by the contact of his 
lnad with the head — or the pumpkin — with which the 
headless horseman had pursued him; they may have 
been developed when he escaped the dreamy, enchanting 
influences of Sleepy Hollow. There was one thing that 
looked suspicious. "Brom Bones, too. who shortly after 
his rival'.- disappearance conducted the blooming Kat- 
rina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look 



416 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was 
related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the 
mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that 
he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. 

"The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Ich- 
abod was spirited away by supernatural means; and 
it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood 
round the winter-evening fire. The bridge became more 
than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may 
be the reason why the road has been altered of late 
years, so as to approach the church by the border of 
the mill-pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon 
fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the 
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plough- 
boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has 
often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melan- 
choly psalm-tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy 
Hollow." 



This story was related by a pleasant old gentleman 
"at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of Man- 
hattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and 
most illustrious burghers." Notwithstanding some fell 
asleep before he had proceeded far, it was well received 
by all excepting one, "who maintained a grave and 
rather severe face throughout; now and then folding his 
arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the 
floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind." He finally 
demanded " what was the moral of the story, and what it 
went to prove ? 

" The story-teller . . . paused for a moment, looked at 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 417 

bis inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and . . . 
observed, that the story was intended most logically to 
prove: — 

"'That there is no situation in life but has its advan- 
tages and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as 
we find it: 

" ' That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troop- 
ers is likely to have rough riding of it. 

"'Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the 
hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high pre- 
ferment in the State/ 

"The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold 
closer after this explanation. ... At length he observed, 
that all this was very well, but still he thought the story 
a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points 
on which he had his doubts. 

"'Faith, sir,' replied the story-teller, 'as to that matter, 
I don't believe one-half of it myself.'" 

27 






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